


No Peace in Grief

by WinterDusk



Series: A Time to Build [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Mostly Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17580092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDusk/pseuds/WinterDusk
Summary: Rebuilding takes time.  Thor has a lot to rebuild, and little to do so with.---This group of stories is rather long and so will doubtless become AU when Endgame comes out.  They may already be AU; I’m carefully not watching the trailer.  Still, I intend to finish them all, and have the full arc plotted out.





	1. Prologue. October

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that many of the thoughts and opinions of characters in this piece are what I believe might be the shape of their thoughts be in the situations they find themselves in. That is not to say that they are healthy or sensible. In particular, several instances of rather self-destructive attitudes towards self-care and denial of the harm of mental ill health are presented. It says a lot when Valkyrie and Tony Stark have been the characters that, to me, represent the Voice of Reason, and help to combat these assumptions!
> 
> As such, please be aware of the following warnings: Character death; instances where characters are unaware of reality/behave extremely irrationally; cannon-typical violence; mental illness; discussions of the situations of vulnerable groups including refugees. I’ll flag up other warnings as the story proceeds.
> 
> Hopefully despite all of these warnings, you’ll find that there’s a generally optimistic tale taking place!

Stepping out, off the New Statesman, is breathtakingly disorientating. For a moment Thor's steps want to stumble if only to mirror how he's feeling, but the very force of his own momentum somehow takes him over the ship's threshold and on to their new land.

Frost has turned the grasslands brittle such that he can feel them give underneath his feet. Late afternoon sunlight catches on the ice, a billion tiny stars blinding his one good eye to tears.

And it must be the light. Or maybe the sharpness of the air. For surely he's too old to weep over a little snow?

Or maybe the tears stem from gratitude, he reminds himself, as other footsteps echo his. It must be the dizzying release that, finally, Thanos has been ended; his foul work undone. That fickle fancy of a Norn had granted the remnants of his people, destroyed before the snap, a second chance at life.

Behind him, there's a giggle, then two young children, skirts and ribbons flying about them, race past. An alarmed parental squawk follows after the girls, but, finally freed from the ship's confines, they're lost in their own game of tag. Thor remembers being much the same at their age. More children follow until it seems as though, as far as the eye can see, there are only moments of childish delight, there on the icy cliffs above the sea.

Seven thousand souls hasn't seemed so many. Not aboard the New Statesman. Not after everyone has settled down and filtered in, past the main hatch. Truly, they had saved only a fraction of Asgard. Yes somehow, now, it seems like enough.

“What orders, my king?” Heimdall's bass rumble recalls Thor to himself.

“We’ll sleep back on board tonight,” he says. Decrees. Now that he his king, leader of a people who exist, he should get used to making declamations again. Hopefully better ones than his last proclamation: to head to Midgard and, though then unknown, into Thanos’s path.

Thus if, when he adds, “Tomorrow is soon enough to start upon our settlement,” his voice feels soft and uncertain, hopefully it is ignored or, at least, mistaken for awe at their momentous good-fortune.

Because something is still missing.

Loki is not here.


	2. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is closing in, but the Asgardian refugees have a long way to go before they have a habitable home. And then the Avengers call upon Thor...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos on the prologue!  
> Things to bear in mind as I go forward with this story:  
> 1) I’ve assumed that S.H.I.E.L.D. reforms in the chaos caused by Thanos.  
> 2) I kind of forgot that Stormbreaker can summon the bifrost… So, for that point, please suspend your disbelief, just for my little tale, and accept that Asgardian access to the bifrost is gone.

One night on Midgard turns into a week. After a week, they have somehow been at the landing site a month. The site Asgard's refugees have been directed to is as Odin once showed his sons. Below the high cliffs is a sea rich in fish. Where the grassland finishes, pine forest runs thick and dark. Finally, underpinning it all, under even the rich earth that they might, in warmer months, hope to farm, is good solid stone.

It's just unfortunate that they haven't the tools to easily work these resources.

Thor can't fault the various and disarrayed governments of Midgard; they've made a fair effort with tents and grain and the like. It's simply that they've their own problems to attend to. To say that the Asgardians are somewhat forgotten in all the post-Thanos chaos would be putting it mildly. Thor can't shake the dark voice of pessimism – one which speaks with words that sound disturbingly like his brother’s – that there are worse things than to be forgotten and overlooked.

So his people make-do.

Winter has turned bitter. Snow lies thick; a stifling blanket which traps old and young alike in the grounded spaceship, while the able-bodied struggle through snowbanks and over iron-solid ground to erect shelter while wearing inadequate clothing. Of their seven thousand (and two hundred and twelve) countrymen, nearly half are either children or elders. Six in ten are women. They have twenty healers; two thousand women able to weave cloth (but who have no looms); two blacksmiths, a sword-maker and an armourer (with no forges); and two teams of sailors-come-fishermen (with no boats).

Thor has an axe.

In the last month he's cut down more trees than he can count and considered it all to his good. Even in his exhaustion, he knows he needs a method of working though his fear and frustration. That he's alone for long stretches of times is, of course, irrelevant.

Besides, he has many failings to make up for. His people deserve so much better that that which he can provide for them.

Thankfully there are workmen and labourers and even an architect. Under their combined skill, Landing, as their new home is becoming known, has sprouted a moderately windproof hall of reasonable dimensions and a stockade that Valkyrie has declared acceptable. The existence of a communal hall has led to communal cooking, which is not so different to eating at a great feast day and is, in any case, much superior to the New Statesman's replicated ‘sustenance’.

Already hunters and trappers are bringing back birds and rabbits for the pot and one of the elders has taken to spinning threads and strings from their sinew.

Their next project is to be a fishing boat, though there's a small but vocal sect calling for a quarry. Thankfully even his somewhat shaky leadership has been up to the task of guiding his people to securing their food stock as their primary objective.

And then there's Valkyrie, who wants to start an army.

And Heimdall and Eir pointing out a rather scarcely populated Council.

Really, when the communication panels on the New Statesman pick up Stark’s request, it's something of a relief.

Stepping onto the quinjet is like stepping into a distant world. It's been weeks since Thor noticed the mud on his boots, but, upon embarking the trail of dirt, melting snow and pine needles he sheds behind himself is unmistakable. Clearly someone must be cleaning up the New Statesman for him not to have seen their current dormitory descend into chaos.

His should probably figure out who's been responsible and thank them for it. Maybe they can have a place on his Council for possessing the rare skill of behaving like a grown up.

If the Norns have any pity at all for a lost Asgardian, Thor would have been allowed to enjoy the day’s change in pace.

Instead Steve is there, blocking Thor's path forward. “Hey. Not that I'm not glad to see you, but are you sure you should be here?”

Steve's eyes are gentle as he asks the question, yet Thor wishes Steve had asked anything else. Maybe asked the true question that is behind that soft phrase and hidden in his gentle grasp as he clasps Thor's shoulder. Because Thor isn't certain he should be here. Just that debts need answering and an oath should never be broken.

For Thor had made that oath once: to protect Midgard. Had made it and meant it. So now he must follow through.

Not that the inhabitants of the realm in which he’s currently stranded speak any truer than his brother. ‘Oath breaker’ seems a quaint slur here.

None of which is relevant to meeting S.H.I.E.L.D.’s current crisis. Neither Stark not Steve are the type to issue a call to arms needlessly.

“I am where I must be.” He will make it be true. “Tell me of the current troubles.”

Steve's lips twist into a tried grimace, one Thor wonders if the other man even knows to be so revealing. When his friend nods, clearly marshalling his thoughts, it is obvious that his attention has been redirected; that Landing, and any responsibilities Thor may hold for the fledgling settlement, are lost to Steve’s thoughts now.

Sometimes Thor wishes them lost to him too. He's aware that this makes him a bad king. It's only one failing among his many.

“There have been riots again.” Steve leads their way into the ship's main belly and Thor is more grateful than he should admit to being that he can simply sit himself down, strap himself in next to Natasha and Peter the Younger, and listen to someone else rattle off a strategy he's had no part in planning. “Las Vegas. It's been hit by intermittent water shortages since the Snap-” Since half the town planners and water treatment engineers and who knew who else vanished, is what Steve really means. “-but since the Return…”

The Grand Return should have been everything. The answer to everyone's hopes and prayers. And it has been. Only not even a sudden doubling of the global population can undo the trauma of such a loss, even one only spanning months. Months that felt like eons. Plus, there's been something of a wide-spread shift away from what Stark calls the rat race, though Thor has yet to see any predominance of rodents. “The shortages have been expedited since the Return,” Thor hazards to guess.

“Pretty much.” Steve looks glum.

It's a sentiment echoed by a distraught-looking Peter, who's more intent fiddling with his suit's cuffs than meeting anyone's gaze. “This is certainly not how I thought I'd be spending the days after the apocalypse,” the youth murmurs, bringing to mind distant childhood memories of Loki’s dismay at the general idiocy of people. “It seems like they should have better things to do.”

_The problem is_ , Thor thinks, _that they do_. They have friends and loved ones to treasure, and the transient nature of life suddenly, piercingly, brought to focus. Of course they just want to enjoy the moment, not strive for the future. Especially for a less than sterling remuneration.

Except then there is no water. And then there is panic. Panic and riots.

“Yeah. So the moral of this is,” Stark's voice calls out clear over the intercom, “that building cities in deserts isn't ideal. Speaking of building, Point Break, how goes life in the fjords?”

*

The riots, when they reach them, aren't centred around any of the more picturesque reaches of the city. Instead, the quinjet circles a tired and dirty mob that have descended upon what looks like a long-since-past-its-prime processing plant of some sort. Though Stark assures them that the water treatment plant was state of the art when first commissioned, Thor can't help but agree with some of the placards that seem to have sprouted throughout the crowd; namely that general taxation seems to have been ill spent.

He wouldn't like to be the local leader in such an environment, though honestly, he can't see any signs of the corporate suits preferred by Midgard's politicians. Maybe they, too, just want to stay home, indulging in the Grand Return. And, unlike Thor, these leaders have the option to quit.

The crowd itself only barely qualifies as a riot. There's a little violence on the fringes, but by comparison to some of the civil unrest he’s tackled as Asgard's prince, nothing looks too out of control.

Yet.

More people keep arriving though and, near to the plant itself, flames are climbing a boarded-up building. Someone's going to get badly hurt soon. Maybe worse.

“Any thoughts on how best to dissipate them?” Steve is asking Stark. Behind him, Natasha's speaking to someone too many miles distant about requisitioning emergency supplies.

“We could try coordinating with the local police to form a barricade and-”

“We do not want to go kettling these people,” Stark cuts over Steve. “Let's try to keep the death toll down, guys. It's not like we just got half these people back or anything and-”

“I am well aware of-”

“Really, we need to fix the water shortage.” Anything else is just masking the underlying problem. In another realm, Thor would have been able to order aqueducts built and commandeer supplies. Here he can do nothing beyond state the obvious.

“Easier said than done,” Stark calls back. “Problem's not this plant; it's that there's no water to go for treatment.”

“If we land and go talk to everyone,” Peter suggests, “surely they'll listen?”

“Talk doesn't bring water,” Stark retorts. “That would be the emergency response team's job. And they are how many hours out, Natasha?”

“Three. Maybe two if we're lucky.”

“Which we never are. So we need to-”

The jet's next circuit of the scrum below shows that the flames are now jumping across an alley, setting alight a bin next to what looks like a residential block. There'll be people in there. The old and the young. The well and the sick and the ones who are maybe just sleeping through the oppression of another day lived as well as the ones who are actively hiding from the chaos outside. Even in the empty apartments, whose residents have gone out for the day, there are a hundred memories and tools and day-to-day necessities about to go up in flames.

All that's needed to stop any of this being lost is rain.

Quite a bit of rain, admittedly, but only rain nonetheless.

For the first time since Thanos fell, it's clear to Thor what he should do next. “Land the jet.”

Steve nods in agreement with Thor. “You’re right. Peter's right. We need to be out there.” Which means Steve's rather got the wrong idea about Thor’s intent.

“If we don't have a plan, we might only stir things up,” Natasha says. “We don't want to exacerbate things. By going in unprepared, we will only make it worse.”

“And by not going in, we might as well not be here,” Steve counters.

“Land the jet,” Thor repeats; all the while, those flames are building.

“We need-”

In another place, or even just another time, Thor would have waited around to see what was agreed. But he's lost too much. Everyone's lost too much and here is finally something he can help with. Sparing barely a glance to confirm that everyone's still strapped in, Thor hits the ‘lower ramp’ button.

“Hey! What the hell!”

Ignoring the startled shouts behind him, Thor steps out into the void.

For a moment there is nothingness. Wind tears past his face, but feels so warm and soft that he barely registers it. Had his brother felt this near-nothingness when he fell?

Then Thor hits the ground.

The concrete paving cracks beneath his feet and the humans unfortunate enough to be standing close to his arrival point are knocked to their knees. He'd apologise, really he would, it's just that he's a little busy summoning a storm.

On Asgard, he'd been known as the God of Thunder, when more truly he'd relied on lightning during his battles. Yet it hasn't ever been simple electrical charge he summoned.

The air here is dry. Almost achingly so. The attempt to drag water molecules together into droplets is far from easy, yet Thor's talent, such as it is, has never been limited by what the humans call reality or physics or a hundred other words which simply mean that they've yet to fully understand how the multiverse works.

So Thor doesn't focus on how very dry the atmosphere is. Instead he thinks about a boy he once knew. One he loved yet has outlived. One who lied a final time, for the sun has never again shone on them.

It starts to rain.

Softly at first; barely a gentle hissing of droplets against the ground. But it's a ground that Loki will never walk upon and so the rain builds until it's more than a mere downfall and instead becomes torrential.

Dimly Thor knows that the fire is out. That the crowds are retreating. That people are looking at him.

That it's not just rain on his face.

But as his clothes grow first damp and then coldly slick against his skin, all that he can do is feel regret.

*

It's Stark's hand in his shoulder which returns him to himself an indeterminate time later.

“You know what? I think that's sufficient water for everyone, right now. We don't want to go causing a flood.”

Blinking, it's as though the whole world snaps back into focus. The ground, once hard-baked and sturdy, is slick with mud. The air smells of damp and cool although, below that, the scent of too many dirty bodies lingers. In the distance, the snap of flames has been replaced by the trickling tinkle of water falling into once-dry drains.

All around him, people stare. Someone not two meters from Thor is recording the events.

Thor's been the oldest prince of Asgard all his life; the crown prince for years. He's used to entering a situation and having attention reorient around him. Yet this feels different. No one's looking to him for guidance, but rather as though they see through him to the loss of his people; the shame of his failure to safeguard his realm; the hollowed-out rawness where his sense of purpose once resided.

Someone steps forwards, breaking ranks with the crowd and Thor doesn't want to remain to hear what they'll say. At this point gratitude will be almost worse than blame. Stepping back just runs him into Stark, but that's fine because then he had an excuse to turn – to apologize – which brings the quinjet into view. When exactly did that land? How did he not notice?

But all that's eclipsed by the frantic, overwhelming relief Thor feels when he realises that he's got an escape.

Exit strategies where always more of Loki's forte.

Staggering up the ramp – and since when does calling a simple storm leave the God of Thunder so drained? – he drops into his chair and fumbles at the seat restraints. Surely no one will follow him back onto the jet? Stark has moments of crazy protectiveness towards his gear so surely he'll stop any random stranger from boarding? And surely the mission must be done? No one seemed to be fighting any longer and even the most half-hearted of attempts to capture the rain must have supplied enough for everyone's current needs.

He can't seem to catch his breath.

Getting the restraints on is suddenly secondary to getting the restraints off. He can't breathe and he needs- He needs-

Giving the shoulder strap a sudden hard yank, it clangs free, leaving Thor able to double up; folding around his aching lungs.

Distantly he's aware of voices, all of them talking, one over another, ‘til they flow together and merge like an Alfheim chant. There's a lurching feeling, thought that might just be in his mind, then a firm grip – almost Asgardian – takes his shoulder. Steve's other hand presses down on the nape of his neck, guiding him further over until his forehead's almost touching his knees and, just like that, Thor begins to feel like he can breathe again.

Slowly sense begins to return to the world.

“-be alright.” Steve is saying. “Just breathe. Come on. Keep breathing.”

Such a pointless thing to say. As though Thor would willingly stop breathing!

His hands are shaking, Thor realises. They're clasped together, his right hand and forearm still bearing the burn marks from that final battle with Thanos, and held so firmly to his knees that surely it should be impossible for them to shake so. Yet despite this he's shivering like a spring leaf in a gale or a green youth at his first battle.

“Easy there. Easy now.” Steve's rambling on, the warm points where the two of them touch suddenly seeming like the only things keeping Thor from shaking apart. The soldier's fingers are gently stroking down his neck, along his spine and back again and, in some unconsciously made decision, Thor feels a fragment of that terrible tension within him easing. He doesn't think anyone's touched him like this since his mother died.

He should look up. Now that he's returned to himself, it's only proper that he desist in such a petulant display. But Steve seems happy to ramble along and Thor can't bring himself to move.

Instead he lets himself gather his thoughts.

The jet's engines are thrumming steadily, the pitch indicating that they've taken to the skies. Other than that and Steve's voice, the jet is unnervingly silent. Usually even on the longest of long flights there'd be discussion or bravado or even the simple sounds of warriors preparing to fight.

He's managed to spook them silent.

Thor's beyond grateful to be several hundred miles from Landing right now.

Pushing Steve's hands away, he sits up. “My friends. I can only apologise for-”

“Don't.” Thor had thought Stark piloting the quinjet, but the other man is there, kneeling next to Steve with an uncharacteristically sombre light in his eyes. “Don't apologise, ok? Just take it easy.” He nods, sharply and decisively at some thought known only to his own mind. “How long have the attacks been coming on?”

Attacks? He must mean Thor's stricken state, though Thor can't see what would lead Stark to believe his discomfort to be the result of some external event. “Never.” Which is, of course, not entirely true, because it would be truer to say, “Well, except for now. Not that this is an attack. No one's attacked me. This is just…” For a moment, Thor beholds his hands, hoping for an answer, but they are as empty of answers as his mind, “a personal failing.”

Stark's hard to read at the best of times; too expressive some moments and too distracted at others, but if the way he's raising his eyebrows is any indication, he's surprised.

Steve just looks compassionate. He wears the expression better than Odin did. Thor wishes he could find comfort in that mercy, but it only leaves him feeling achingly morose. “It's not a failing to become overwhelmed, Thor. It's human. Well, not _human_. Normal. And-”

Stark gives Steve a hard shove, half toppling him back from Thor, “What Grampa here is trying to say is that it'll get better.” The look he gives Thor is almost angry. “It might not feel like it, but it, whatever ‘it’ is, will get better.” Then he scrubs a hand across his face, “Ah, hell, who am I kidding? This is about Ragnarok, isn't it?”

Confusion is almost a relief: a feeling both familiar and not unpleasant. “Ragnarok was months ago, my friend.” Does Stark truly think there is some lingering impact? A magical shockwave of sorts perhaps, which is causing him ill?

The very idea sends alarm through his veins. For if it's crippling him, now, like this, then what of his remnant subjects? The young and the frail and those with no latent magic of their own to help ward off this assault?

Stark, as is his nature, is still talking. “And getting blown up and having a battery plugged into my chest was years ago. Try telling that to my nightmares though.”

Dreams and night terrors? That's what Stark thinks lies at the root of his episode? “My friend, I've lived through many battles.”

“None like this.”

Which is true enough, but, “In the end, the violence was brief. Short-lived.”

“And very extreme.” Steve chimes in. “Have you spoken to anyone about this?”

Thor can't help but grimace at the very idea. For who would sing willingly of Ragnarok or of the sickening excess of Thanos?

The question's barely formed by his mind before a name, never far from his thoughts, slips to the front. Loki would sing of this chaos. Loki would spin a tale of courage and valour from the horror; a message for the generations and a call to face the future with strength.

His silence must be answer enough though, because Steve's no longer looking at Thor with that terrible mercy, but instead seems to be trying to telepath something to Stark that Thor's simply too exhausted to attempt to figure out.

Either Stark's ignoring Steve, or Steve's received some sort of go ahead because, after a pause long enough for Thor to remember the million dead, Steve says softly, “Is _anyone_ in New Asgard taking about Ragnarok?”

Thor wishes with a violent passion that the Midgardians wouldn't call Landing ‘New Asgard’. Asgard can never be replaced.

“There is nothing to talk about,” he says, stonily, aware all the while that Steve and Stark are exchanging the types of glances that undoubtedly mean he's been doing something very wrong.

“There's kind of the end of the world to talk about.” Stark offers. “And the entire massacre that followed.”

Loki's neck snapping.

Thor shakes the memory away.

“Both of which are over and done with.” Thankfully. If only he could persuade his thoughts of that. Stark hit closer than he knew in asking about night terrors. “And the latter is utterly undone.”

Stark looks confused. “So, they don't remember anything?”

Thor remembers not to punch his friend. “Only dying,” he bites out.

Stark has the grace to look chastised. “I thought you meant-” But whatever it is that he thought Thor meant is left unspoken for he blows out a hard breath instead and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look. I get that I'm the last person who should be speaking about finding an emotionally healthy grieving process, which, admittedly, is possibly exactly why I should be the person talking to you about emotionally healthy grieving processes. But this… thing… that you’re doing is definitely not that. You need to-” he waves his hands vaguely, ”-talk about this and stuff.”

“I do not believe that talking will-”

Stark out and out shushes him. “Oh, believe me, I know. But, seriously, the idea of an entire country of traumatised superbeings is alarming to me for more than philanthropic reasons.”

“You're an ass,” Steve snaps.

“An asset to this team. Why, yes, I know.” But then Stark turns back to Thor, refusing to be derailed. “Seriously, I get that talking about what happened is going to be all kinds of painful, but trust me on this: even if everyone just ignores it, it's not going to go away. _Especially_ if they just ignore it.”

Thor hates the fact that this all seem to be clicking in his mind. As though he already knew as much and had chosen to forget. Because, “What can I even do?” It's all too much, far too much, for him to even begin to tackle.

It's all Thor can do to wake up every morning and assign people to work teams.

“In the long run?” Stark shrugs. “That's a good question and we'll figure it out. In the short term however, I have the perfect plan.”

*

Waking up the next morning, Thor closes his eyes immediately and wishes his hangover away. As ever it's a vain hope.

That brief glance did at least let him know that he seems to be back in one of Stark's many residences. The windows were heavily tinted – thank the Norns – but the light filtering in from outside had looked bright enough that Thor suspects he's first drunk the night away, then slept most of the morning through as well.

He should feel guilty, but mostly he just feels rested.

There are discordant snores from the other sofa. It sounds like Stark's also crashed out here rather than heading off to his own room. Thor can't hear anyone else around them though. The younger Peter he can clearly remember departing; something about homework and chores and an Aunt May, and Natasha he remembers bowing out, but he'd thought Steve still around.

Not that he really remembers all that much, which he suspects was the entire point of Stark's plan. Stark had been pretty forthcoming with the alcohol the evening before and Thor, well, it had been nice to be far from his troubles.

He vaguely remembers them running short of wine. But there'd been spirits. The spirits had been good for making toasts; Thor might have made a lot of them. Maybe that's when Steve left?

Deciding to risk opening his eyes again, Thor sits up.

There's the sound of movement behind him, but he can’t deem it worth the effort of looking around to see what’s going on. Instead Thor, very slowly, lets his head droop down until it's cradled in his hands.

“How are you feeling?”

Apparently Steve didn't leave either. “I think I may have had a bit to drink last night.”

Steve laughs and walks into Thor’s field of vision. “Until last night I wouldn't have believed anyone could drink Stark's supply dry. Coffee?” A steaming mug is put under his nose.

“Thank you.” It's vile and bitter as ever, but Thor doesn't have time to nurse a hangover today.

“I'll wake Tony, then get some breakfast started.”

“Let him sleep.” Thor finishes the mug and hands it back to his friend. “Thank you for your indulgence last night. I fear I may have been rather charmless.” He waves away Steve's demurring, because that's not the point he's trying to make. “And I must leave now. I have already been gone for far too long.”

That thought, more than last night's alcohol, sets his stomach to churning.

Steve just nods. “Let us know if there's anything, and I mean _anything_ , that we can do to help.”

*

“You're needed in the captain's wardroom,” is not the phrase anyone wants to hear upon returning from a quest. It leaves Thor feeling several centuries younger, as he traipses through the New Statesman's corridors. It’s as though he's about to get scolded by his father again.

Admittedly, he's now king. A fact which does surprisingly little to fortify him when, upon entering the interim throne room, he finds it is both Heimdall and Eir who stand to great him.

“My king,” they intonate in near perfect harmony and with an apparent lack of irony.

“My councillors,” Thor replies in lieu of anything more official. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He tries not to be sharp, really he does. It's just that he's tired and disheartened and the peace of a home hearth-fire seems impossible to find.

It's Heimdall who steps up to the task. “We received an official communication from Earth's global governance body while you were away.” Guilt twists through Thor at that. “If it pleases you to read it?” The proffered box has clearly been opened.

“You've read it.” It's hard to sound accusing while feeling the worse for dereliction of duty. Besides, these were among his father's councillors and so surely trusted with more vital correspondence before today?

“The solicitors who brought the documents were rather insistent,” Eir manages to sound highly displeased by this breach in protocol.

“I see.” Thor takes the document box and shakes the better part of a grimoire free. It is clearly going to take some reading, even ignoring that it is in one of the Midgardian written languages. Catching the abbreviated version from the solicitors would have helped, but then he had his duty and obligation to planetary peacekeeping… There's a balance to be found here somewhere, but Thor hasn't found it yet. “And? Will you summarise?”

In all the long years Thor has known them, he's never seen Heimdall or Eir seek one another out, be it at feasts or festivals, to talk as friends. So it's far from reassuring when they exchange a loaded glance before the Master of the Gates clearly accepts his duty. “It regards our status in this realm, my king. Apparently it is not so secure as we had hoped.”

*

The next morning Elder Azik is found dead. “Natural causes,” Eir proclaims and, truly, Thor can see nothing unnatural these days in falling dead from a broken heart.

He shoulders his axe, and moves to cut wood for a funeral ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are loved and appreciated! They are even more motivating than coffee!


	3. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Valkyrie takes Thor to one side and, in no uncertain terms, lets him know that his leadership stinks.

Every day snow falls.

“There’s a box for you, my king.” Aslung, the young woman who has… What? Been assigned as his maid? His aide? Or did she volunteer herself to that role?

Aslung, _who has become his daily assistant_ , loiters uncertainly in the cabin’s doorframe.

“A box?” Thor asks, bemused. Not that the concept in and of itself is alien. People have been sending gifts and delights to Asgard’s crown prince since before he was old enough to remember the acts starting; quite possibly before his birth. Currying favour with those in power is an old, established practice.

Since he has become king, Thor has received a different form of gifts: those granted by beings in possession of goods to those who have none. Charity rendered to his dispossessed people.

And Thor has been grateful for these new gifts, more grateful than he ever was for the previous type.

Yet never before has this charity caused Aslung to look so uncertain.

“Do you want for me to bring it here?” she asks.

“No need,” Thor rises from his desk. “I’m in need of air to freshen my thoughts.”

The New Statesman is barely recognisable from the moments when she arrived in Asgard’s atmosphere, appearing through the mists and under his brother’s command. A large, deep-space vessel, she survived the trip through Midgard’s atmosphere in better condition than Heimdall had expected, but she will never again manage to climb out of the planet’s gravity well. As such, she’s been well and truly cannibalised.

Thor’s cabin, for instance, now boasts a laser-cut door to the outside, which some fool, with more time than sense, has been fit to embellish with an elaborately carved wooden archway. Thor would have protested the excess, but Eir had firmly pulled him aside. “A people are their arts and their culture as much as their flesh. If you fill their bellies but empty their hopes, we will fail.”

Similar modifications-come-improvements stretch the length of the ship, yet it is not these but rather the sea that always catches Thor’s eye.

In part it’s because the sea lies directly in front is his new door. The cliffs that drop, five hundred meters straight down into the heaving waters, lie barely three hundred paces from the ship. But Thor’s attention is also drawn simply because the seas are _there_ ; vast and changeable, yet strangely constant. A presence and energy which Thor can almost reach out to and touch. A certain comfort in an uncertain time.

Today the seas are hidden; snow swirls down from white-grey clouds above, intense enough to turn that which is near, distant, and that which is distant, invisible.

Yet even below the sound-softening effects of the snowfall, Thor can hear the water’s roar and crash; the churn of waves against rock.

Opening his door, Thor puts his back to the ship, facing the wind, facing the sea, and steps out into the whiteness.

The snow is already up to his knees. Turning to trudge alongside the ship and at constant distance to the cliffs is an actual undertaking. Aslung follows along gamely in his footsteps and Thor makes sure to step a little heavier than he normally would, forging something of a path past the sheds and lean-tos that have sprung up along the New Statesman’s length until they pass her thrusters and are lost to landmarks.

The communal hall is barely a hundred paces from the ship. It’s a distance chosen precisely to allow room for city planning as they disassemble their ship and establish their presence here.

_A presence that is, apparently, not wanted._

Thor stomps that thought down.

That is expressly _not_ what the official document from the humans had said. Though they’d certainly found plenty of other things to say and not say in their writings.

They just want payment. Powers. Guarantees.

His name, in pen, as though they will not trust his word.

Thor stomps a little harder, partly to try and firm out a path to the communal hall, but only partly for that reason.

At least the Midgardians were being ‘reasonable’. He has time, at least, to read and respond to this… setback.

Time he’ll sorely need. The text is as oblique as anything he’s ever seen Loki study.

Behind him, Aslung staggers, her hand reaching out to catch at his cloak and slow her tumble. “Sorry. Sorry, my king.”

Turning to steady her, Thor tries to smile reassuringly. “It’s quite alight. And you don’t have to speak to me so formally.” However, if past circumstance is a template, he makes the statement in vain. For it feels as though, the more his people’s situation diminishes, the more intensely they wish to revere him. As though by miming the words of pomp and ritual, they will somehow summon forth glory.

Glory has always been, at best, an illusion.

“I should-“ She laughs and whispers something, her hair flying in the gale; coiling around her wrist as she tries to clear it from her eyes. Thor can’t make out her words. _Something, something, ‘path’, something, ‘balance’_. Her cloak snaps around her thin form in the storm as she marks out a frail line of colour and life in the churning snow and ice.

“Yes.” For it sounds like a good idea. “We would raise a covered path.”

She smiles, bright and cheerful in the cold, and nods, but her words are swept away again.

“This isn’t working.” Thor bellows. “We should move on.”

He turns once more away from the storm, but is careful to keep a hand near to Aslung’s shoulder lest she trip again.

Thankfully the hall swims out of the storm without further incident; soft golden light casting warmth on the heart long before it reaches the flesh.

“You look half perished!” Goodwife Hege laughs as they step through the thick animal pelts that their trappers have hung over the hall’s entrance. Above them, the roof stretches into the dark, supported by thick timbers hewn from the forest, while around them space opens up; an area maybe fifty strides by one hundred, held sheltered from the outside elements in one vast space. “Here,” she hands them a small brush, “beat off the snow from yourselves before it melts and drenches you to the quick.”

Hege, as ever, is smiling and merry. “Are you here for the stew?” She ask, trying to simultaneously usher them to a long table and free them from their outer garments. “Let’s put these by the fire to dry.”

“It’s rather early for lunch,” Thor smiles. But her words have reminded him about this mysterious box, of which Aslung’s so reluctant to tell him more. So he’s somewhat distracted as he tells Hege, “Speak to Halvdan. Have him and his sons set to building a covered walk from here to the New Statesman.”

If she’s startled by his abruptness, Hege doesn’t show it, instead bobbing into a brief curtsy while holding their cloaks bundled to her chest. “Of course, my king.”

Aslung must have picked up on something of his frame of mind, for she seems more sombre herself as she leads him across the hall, fiercely warm by comparison to the day outside, and to one of the small storerooms that abut the rear of the structure. It’s where they’ve taken to collecting goods and supplies sent to Landing before they can be distributed to their appropriate location, which, as most such parcels involve either food or drink, is often merely to one of the adjacent stores.

Harsh white light blinks on as they cross the threshold, the illumination strip taken from the New Statesman powering up with a struggle. Either it’s suffering poor compatibility with Stark’s Midgardian-supplied solar panels, or the panels and batteries themselves are experiencing difficulties in the snow. Thor resolves to raise a team to check.

Only a single box remains in the store; it’s immediately apparent why Aslung’s appeared so conflicted by it.

“I’ll,” she waves her hand towards the main body of the hall, “go.”

*

Alone once more in his cabin, snow melting into puddles that mark his path from door to desk, Thor looks at the box with an attempt at objectivity.

It proves beyond him.

The address is simple enough and accurate in its destination:  
_Thor Odinson,_  
_Asgardian Settlement,_  
_Norway._

Thor doesn’t have to look at the return address to know its origin. He’s seen Jane’s brisk hand adorn a hundred personal notes and literally thousands of sheets of scientific purpose. He knows what the box contains. Thor sets it down, at the foot of his bunk, unopened.

*

Every day the snow falls thicker.

Waking, Thor will roll onto his side in bed, his eyes seeking out the porthole that never shows stars these days, nor much of anything save soft, powdery whiteness. When the white is solid and sparkling, lit from the reflected lights in his own cabin, he knows it is dark outside. When the white is luminous and oddly indistinct, then the sun must be briefly struggling over the horizon.

Thor doesn’t know where it finds the energy.

After he’s lain there, staring at what is, effectively, nothing, for long enough this he’s thoroughly disgusted at himself, Thor will crawl out of the bed and stagger across to the door – the outside door; he’s not ready to face the souls meandering the New Statesman’s bowels just yet – and throw it open.

It’s good that the tinker, Haskell, constructed the door to open outwards; the snow drifts give Thor something to battle first thing.

Door finally open, it’s almost a pleasure to step out into the shocking cold. Scrubbing the snow over his bare limbs is probably not so good at cleaning his hide as a proper shower would be, but it’s certainly invigorating. Thor feels in desperate need of a little vigour these days.

The snow smells clean and innocent.

It’s the same solidified water that fell on mischievous camping trips in his youth. First with Loki alone, then joined by the Warriors Three, and finally the Lady Sif. They’d scour the forests for game and laugh as they cooked the flesh – sometimes delicious, sometimes not – over low flames coaxed from the deadwood of whatever trees they’d found themselves near. Skins could be stretched over frames if the night looked brutal, or sometimes the snow would be sufficient that a little work shifting compacted blocks would form a nice, snug nest.

Midgard, Alfheim, Vanaheim. Hundreds of campsites across thousands of winter nights, all held together by the sounds of friendship and the smell of snow and smoke.

Every day that the snows fall here reminds Thor of the people he’s lost; the days he never appreciated enough while he lived them. His brother apparently grew to hate that life, though Thor never noticed at the time.

Every day here smells of snow and ice.

Every day smells of Loki.

*

Day sixty doesn’t feel any different from day fifty-nine or, for that matter, day five. They’ve the hall and the walk, but other than that, the snow has rendered Thor’s people as trapped on their ship as ever they were in space.

People drink and sing and squabble the days away, but under the apparent unchangeability of it all, Thor can hear unease. It’s there in the uncertain silence around the three young and stranded scholars from Vanaheim; for Thor still hasn’t found a way to return them to their home. He’s not his brother’s talent with world-walking and, as for spaceship technology, well, even if the youngsters were both willing and able to pilot a vessel for multiple years to reach their home, there’s a distinct lack of vessels to grant them.

Thor thinks, briefly, of the Commodore, lodged on top of the New Statesman, but he thinks of it only to acknowledge that he’s not giving it away. If that’s another thing to feel guilty over, then so be it.

Then there’s the cluster of youths, some of whom claim to have been just starting their training under General Tyr before the- _before._

Personally, Thor neither believes the youths nor begrudges them their lie. But that’s by-the-by when he can see their frustrations at being cooped up building with every snowbound day. Their ‘play fights’ might be all energy and no skill, but that’s not going to help when someone’s head catches a sharp corner or another is pushed too abruptly and takes a nasty fall.

Thor doesn’t even want to consider worse than broken bones; his people number too few as it is.

So he needs to find a distraction for the boys and girls. One that won’t have them lost in the snowfields, stumbling over cliffs or drowning in the winter seas.

Not that Asgard’s elders are any better than Asgard’s young. If Thor feels like he’s walking around in a fog, then he’s far from the only one. Having company in this doesn’t make Thor feel better.

While attending to his morning snow-bath, trying not to think about someone whose hands were never warm, Thor tries instead to tackle these problems. Or, failing that, to tackle any problem. Solutions seem elusive and Thor comes up blank.

When the cold causes feeling not just to be numbed from his toes, but most of his feet, he accepts that he’s not going to find inspiration for his people today.

Back in his room, the first thing he sees are the pages of the Midgardian Council’s ultimatum.

He doesn’t look at it for long, instead scrubbing himself both warm and dry with a towel and pulling his clothes on. Walls that had, just minutes earlier, felt like they protected him from his subjects’ too-demanding attention, now seem determined to pen him in with problems he’s not equipped to solve.

He heads out of the other door; the one into the ship.

He’s barely opened the door before he’s first ‘my king’ed by a child rushing who-knows-where. There’s no crown for his throne, but no one seems to care, they’re all so determined to make that little bobbing bow.

Fandral would wet himself laughing to see it.

“Here.” A large wine jug enters his vision and is waggled up and down. “You look like you could use this.”

_Fresh food and drink stores are down_ , the new, problem-spotting part of Thor’s mind supplies. Problem and lack of clear solution are both clearly logged in his mind before he finishes turning to face Valkyrie.

Which probably means she has a point. “Thanks.” He accepts the jug, taking a long draught. Takes another. Takes a third.

Passes the jug back.

Or, at any rate, tries to. “You should finish it.”

_Lucky him. There must be bad news coming._

“Who died?” It should be a joke, but even as Thor smiles, he knows that Valkyrie won’t return it. Not because she can’t find his ‘joke’ funny, but because _he_ doesn’t find it funny.

“No one, thankfully.” Then she gives him a hard look. “Although it does rather smell like someone did. You need a bath.”

“Hey!” Blood rushes to Thor’s face faster than even the snow could have shocked it.

“Yes, I know I’m being cruel. But I’m doing it to be kind.” She takes his arm and guides him down the corridor, all the while pulling the kind of face that makes it clear she’ll be disinfecting her hands as soon as possible after this action. “More to the point, I have a plan.”

Thor feels like she’s somewhat pre-empting his prerogative here but, as he’s flat out of ideas right now, arguing the point seems futile. “Where are we going?”

“First your wardroom, so you can see some charts. Then to the shower block, because I cannot stand spending the rest of the day with you if we don’t complete this step. Then-“

“No one else thinks I smell.” Thor’s mostly sure of this point.

“You’re their king. They’re not going to say anything. Plus, airheads like Aslung would probably just tell you that you smell all manly and enticing. But, from me to you, you stink. So, showers.”

“Everyone will be there.” Because if their enforced lack of activity has led to boredom, then boredom has led certain groups to… find methods of occupying themselves.

“Not after I’ve told them to leave, they won’t be.” Valkyrie’s flat voice promises murder and mayhem, possibly to Thor if he doesn’t capitulate. “After that stop we will briefly return to your cabin so that you can collect that wood-cutter of yours and possibly your cloak. Then we will go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Thor can’t think of a single threat around here severe enough to warrant bringing Stormbreaker.

“Yes. A very brief walk. Because I am amazing and have found something wondrous. And you are going to help me bring this wondrous thing into being.”

It’s not entirely clear that there’s a good reply to Valkyrie’s statements, so Thor just nods slowly and hopes that his wardroom will hold some sort of answer. However, it’s possible the room won’t. Two days ago Eir had needed to place one of the fishermen on enforced bed-rest. Apparently he’d started to make insane declarations of brilliance, punctuated by violence against those inclined to dismiss his points. Admittedly, he’d previously been a meek and mild soul. The making of outrageous declarations is much more in keeping with Valkyrie’s normal personality.

“So, first the wardroom?” Thor hazards, wondering when five or six steps of instruction became so opaque.

“I’m so glad you said that,” Valkyrie says as she shoves him hard. Thor stumbles into the door he is passing, then, annoyingly, though that door as the ship’s rudimentary A.I. recognises him. “Because I had seriously thought you were just going to walk right on past it.”

Which is how Thor realises that he’s on the floor of his own wardroom.

It’s a room he’s steadily growing to despise. Oh, it hadn’t seemed too bad in space when there’d been salvation to reach if they just kept the ship on target and he’d had a brother to rattle off reassuring figures such as, _‘There may only be seven thousand of us on board, but there are nearly another three thousand Aesir based in other realms, as artisans and hunters and mages and students and, of course, spouses. Then there’re the off world garrisons and various diplomats. We are hurting, but not yet without resources.’_

Somehow his brother had made decimation from a hundred thousand to barely ten thousand souls scattered throughout the cosmos feel perfectly sufficient.

And then Loki went and got himself killed.

The sound of someone snapping their fingers brings Thor back to the moment. Valkyrie’s not quite up close and in his personal space, but she is wearing a peculiar expression. “Come on now. I know I didn’t hit your head that hard! I don’t think anyone _can_ hit your head that hard.”

Thanos could.

Thor shoves the thought to one side and picks himself up off the ground. “You have something to show me?” All he can see are papers that should have been dealt with days ago, that damn apple core Lady Idunn keeps begging him to plant – in the middle of winter of all things! – and a host of other tasks that are impossible to address.

“Yes. Come over here, you klutz.” Valkyrie man-handles him over to the computer terminal then whacks it a few times until it starts to boot. Telling her to take it easy with the tech never seems to work out; mostly because any and all tech Thor has ever seen around Valkyrie only ever seems to respond when threatened with violence.

It's still better than his own track record for having fried five of Stark’s communications devices. It has not escaped Thor’s notice that, in their more recent missions, the other Avengers have been told to ‘wait for the signal’ with a meaningful tap of a phone, while he gets ‘wait for the explosions’.

His attention has wandered again. Thankfully Valkyrie seems not to have noticed, having been focussed on loading something onto the screen. Thor would worry more about his missing time phases, really he would, it’s just that, out here in the middle of nowhere, it doesn’t seem particularly important. What are a couple of hours here and there? Norns, what are a couple of weeks? “What’s that?” He asks.

“What does it say it is?”

Thor would point out that the Allspeak doesn’t help all that much with reading, but he’s slowly been getting used to the ship’s alien characters. “Something about… stone?”

“Congratulations. You’ve just noticed that it’s a geological survey. And?”

“And?” Thor doesn’t know what more she wants. There are wavy lines and blocks of shading. Now that he’s got an idea of what he’s looking at, it’s clear that one of the wavy lines marks the local cliffs.

“What’s that?” She jabs the screen hard.

It’s a very good question. Thor doubts that saying he hasn’t a clue will help; likely Valkyrie will just demand he think harder. So, instead he tries to think around the problem; if the first line he noticed is the cliffs, then Valkyrie’s finger lies close to their current location. Very close indeed. Perhaps two hundred strides beyond their current stockade, which is, itself, only two hundred strides out from the New Statesman’s perimeter.

“That’s a river.” Though he sounds accursedly unsure as he says that.

Valkyrie pulls a sad face and pats him on the shoulder. “Close. So close and yet... No, my king, ‘that’ is going to be our new hot spring baths.”

Hot. Spring. Baths.

Individually the words make sense, but in combination Thor’s less certain. “I didn’t think that this region of the planet was geologically unstable.”

Clearly he’s missed Valkyrie’s great plan. “Fine. Be technical if you want to be. This,” another jab, “is the site of our new, spring-fed bathhouse, which we will find a way of heating. Don’t argue with me. Nod and accept this, then go to the showers.”

“You want me to have a shower so I can go and look at a river?”

“No, I want you to have a shower for my benefit. And there isn’t exactly a river in existence at the moment. More of a subterranean current. So there will be digging, which is why I’m bringing you, and due to the digging there is thus a chance for you to smell awful all over again. Do not object to this order of events, just capitulate.”

Thor does.

Clean, dressed in clothes he’s had no choice but to accept when Valkyrie handed them over, and holding Stormbreaker, Thor is finally able to open the external door and have Valkyrie walk through. Thor’s hit immediately in the face by a flurry of wind and snow that’s falling so incessantly it feels more like he’s being pelted with ice. Setting his left side to it, Thor paces along the length of the New Statesman. From the cliffs lost to sight, he can hear the sea crash and rage and beat against their land. The sea’s rage is fine by Thor; he’s feeling somewhat frustrated and provoked himself.

Valkyrie keeps pace easily, maybe even outpacing him. The wind whips her cloak out so sharply that it surely can’t be providing her any warmth, but she doesn’t seem to feel the chill.

At the ship’s stern, Thor determinedly takes the lead again, heading one step from the cliffs for every step from the ship. It seems important, for no discernible reason, that Valkyrie know he took something away from the map; that he can find the general – if not exact – location of her mad plan.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re not exactly the best navigator?” Valkyrie says. “I mean, I know it’s rather thick out here, but you’re heading about ten degrees too close to south.”

Is that true, or a complex metaphor for his life?

A dark, low structure looms into view. The walkway to the communal hall. They’re hitting it between the eight and ninth pillars from the ship, which means that Valkyrie is correct and he’s been walking too quickly away from the cliffs.

Had she seen the walkway before him?

“Young grasshopper,” she rolls her eyes, before holding up something small and shiny. “I have a compass. It came with the disaster relief supplies. And I set a guideline last night.”

That he’d have known of the compass’s existence if only he took a proper inventory, hangs unsaid. On the thirteenth column, a thin orange thread of the oily-textured materials Midgardians favour is tied, at ground level, and runs out into the snow. Reproach and disappointment are thick in the air as they step beneath the covered walkway – out of the direct snow, but not the piercing wind – so it’s a surprise when Valkyrie speaks gently as she ducks down to pick the guideline up, letting it run loosely through her grip as they leave their dubious shelter and continue walking.

“The lesson here, you fool, is that sometimes you have to delegate to the people best equipped to deal with a task. It doesn’t all have to be Thor, Thor, Thor.”

“I’m the king.” The words feel like they’re choking him.

“After-“ Valkyrie pauses. Starts again. The hesitation is unlike her. “After Hela. It took a long, long time for me to start thinking through the drink again. Norns, I still drink. It’s taken me how many thousand years? And I’m still in the alcoholic not-really-dealing-with-it stage. The thing is, you don’t have the luxury of acting like me.” She laughs. “I don’t know what it says, that it took Ragnarok for me to begin to move past, past losing-“

“You lost your Asgard. And now we’ve lost ours.”

“Don’t be so bleak.” She punches him lightly on the arm. “What I was trying to say is that, after only a handful of months, you’re already doing better than I was after nearly two millennia. So, you know, just…” Her words stumble to an uncertain stop and for a moment they scrunch through the snow in silence.

Thor thinks about what she’s said. About what Stark had said weeks earlier. Tries to bring it all together and think things through. After all, how would he respond to his own situation, if he were one of his subjects and not himself?

Uncertainly, Thor tries: “So, it’s important that I accept that healing takes time and effort; ask for help from the people I love and trust; and be patient with myself?”

Valkyrie gives him a very indignant look. “Of course not! What? Are you crazy? Are you going to slope off and lick your wounds and leave one of us to run things? Where’s your damn honour? No!” But then there’s another uncertain pause. “I’m just saying that… I don’t know. But maybe we can help?”

So maybe she is sort of saying what Stark was. In her own type of way.

Thor swings Stormbreaker casually at his side, knocking the soft, wind-smoothed snow about as he tries to see the bigger picture. Being king, yes, and a king without any resources or friends or even his wonderful-evil-smart-back-stabbing brother. But a king with people around him. Valkyrie, who will tell him straight to his face that he’s letting the side down, but then push and shove him until he’s in the right place without really having to take on the insurmountable burden of deciding things. Heimdall, who, while now quiet and withdrawn, watches over their small settlement, easing the fear that prickles at the nape of Thor’s neck; that someone is coming to hurt them; that there are monsters who will make them blead. Eir, who has taken over the management of the most damaged – in mind more so than body – of their people without even being asked. And the seven thousand others of his people who, each in their own way, are trying to help.

“You know, there’s a vacancy for General of the Asgardian Army.”

Valkyrie snorts. “I’m sure my acceptance will go down well. Have fun breaking the news to the others.”

So that’s that. He has another member for his Council, as requested.

They must have trudged out, about the right distance, and Thor is slowly becoming aware of the fact that, as the sound of the waves recedes behind him, he can hear a definite chattering in its place. He gives Valkyrie a look of sincere doubt and suspicion.

“They needed something to do.” She smiles, unrepentant.

And just like that, over the course of a few last few paces, a motley gang seems to materialise between the flurries of snow; appearing as though stepping down mysterious paths from one realm to another.

They haven’t stepped from one realm to another; Thor recognises them all.

“How, exactly, did you persuade them to come?” For ‘they’ are Asgard’s troublesome youths; the ones Thor has no idea how to handle.

Come to think of it, he’s far from certain what he’s meant to do with them now that they’re here at the site of Valkyrie’s not-yet-a-river-forget-a-bathhouse project.

“They’re bored. I told them to turn up, we’d have a massive bonfire-“ Thor notices for the first time the pile of deadwood reaching up to nearly twice his height. “-they’d get to work for their king, and that, if they were any good, I might accept them into the army when it reforms.”

Thor gives her a long look, “And when you made this offer, you knew that you would be in a position to accept them into the army or not, because…?”

Valkyrie doesn’t even bother to look innocent. “I can hardly comment.”

It’s probably best to leave it at that, especially as the youths are drawing closer. Now that Thor knows what they’ve been promised, he can recognise the attempt at forming ranks. Although it might be more accurate to say ‘rank’ as they’ve formed a single ragged line behind the bonfire, one which noticeably curves around the further away they get. Clearly no one wanted to stand at the back and be missed.

There are maybe forty three of them, all told. Slim and scrawny and fidgety. They are all substantially younger than his brother.

Thor feels a sudden rush of compassion for them; trying to imagine Loki cooped up, first on a ship, then in a snowstorm, for months on end. _Of course_ they’re being mischievous.

Now he just needs to ensure that energy doesn’t develop into anything darker.

“Well met,” he greats them. “I trust you are prepared to work hard today?” Though hard at what, he has no idea.

Maybe the youths know what they’re here for and maybe they don’t, but there’s a ragged chorus of ‘aye, sire’ and ‘yes, my king’ and a few bobbed curtseys. Thor fights to hide a smile. Thankfully Valkyrie’s taking over before he has to come up with anything more to say and she doesn’t waste her time on pleasantries.

“The youth of today is nesh,” Valkyrie declares, apparently in all earnestness. “When I was a girl, we’d happily work all year round in a season like this.” Then, to the assembled team at large: “Break into pairs. The last pair formed, the one that ends up as a three, gets the most boring task.”

There’s a general flurry of activity from the youths, but Valkyrie’s happily ignoring them in favour of tugging at and rearranging several of the large, dead, tree branches on the pile. When she’s done she turns, not to her assembled workforce, but to Thor. “If you please?”

It takes Thor a moment to realise that she wants him to act like a living firelighter and ignite the lot of it.

Well, since landing, he’s done lesser tasks than ones to keep his people warm. It’s almost a relief to call the lightening down.

“Good.” Nodding, Valkyrie turns her back on him. “Now, as for the rest of you. Today you are going to get dirty, bored and cold. Get used to it and welcome to the army.” They’re kids and thus can’t be enlisted. Thor sincerely hopes that Valkyrie knows that. Surely things haven’t changed so much since her time in Asgard’s ranks?

“So, in each pair, I want one person to raise their hand. Perfect. You have now achieved absolutely nothing beyond making yourself a morning watcher rather than an afternoon watcher. For those of you that are somewhat sleepy and slow, yes, this means that you will not be switching roles until after lunch.

“So, for the one of you who did _not_ volunteer and raise your hand, congratulations, you get to spend the entire of this morning grubbing about under the snow, trying to find large flat stones that we can use to make stone axes.” What does it say about the last few weeks, that they almost look excited by the prospect? “For those of you named watchers, listen to me very carefully. You will keep an eye on your gatherer at _all times_. Do not let them out of your sight. They will wander further away from flames-“ she jabs a thumb at the pile of debris Thor has lit “-than you. Do not let them go too far. You will also keep an eye on the gatherer in the pair nearer to the fire than you. To summarise, you will make an Aesir chain, watcher, gatherer, watcher, gatherer, watcher, leading out from the flames. If any watcher cannot, at any instant, see two gatherers, guess what happens?”

“We draw together,” shouts some enterprising young fool.

Valkyrie sighs sadly. “No. That is exactly what you do not do. You draw back towards the flame. Not together. Seriously! If I have to waste my afternoon and evening traipsing about in the dark, finding you lot, I will not be inviting you along next time.

“And as for you three-“ she points to the unfortunate trio “-two watchers, one gatherer. You’re closest to the flame. You _must not_ lose sight of the flame. Now spread out and do it properly.”

It clenches something tight in Thor’s chest, to watch the children walk out into the snow, even as they joke and laugh and shove at one another for position. They’re as playful as a pack of young puppies and as sure of their own invincibility.

He’s so scared that something will happen to them. The two watchers standing glumly close to the fire as their friends walk away feel like far too tenuous a lifeline.

“Stop gawking after them like a brooding hen. We need to go this way.” And Valkyrie leads Thor around the fire.

There’s no guideline here – for the first time it occurs to Thor that the line was most likely laid for the youths more than for them. Instead Valkyrie takes steps of even plodding length just as Thor used to, as a child, when plotting out routes blindfolded with his friends. When had he forgotten all of those skills?

He shadows her, counting barely to sixty before he feels the ground change, starting to rise. It’s not exactly a steep incline, but under the snow, the ground feels rocky and, as they climb, it becomes rockier still, the snow being swept away from the exposed location by the never-ceasing wind almost as quickly as it falls. “There’ll be a nice view from here in the summer.”

Valkyrie laughs. “There’ll be a nice view from here a lot sooner than that. It might not feel like it now, but the snows won’t last forever. And when they recede, it’ll be warmer than Asgard usually got.”

“The sun will be high most of the day.” Thor is certain of that much, at least. The promise of those endless days with the sun barely dipping below the horizon had caught at him; a fleeting hope for a better time.

“We can sow the crops soon.”

It feels like Valkyrie’s prompting him as they stand there, apparently admiring a view neither of them can see. After so long adrift it feels good to receive some hints. “The relief supplies contained seed stock for wheat, sugarbeat, potatoes, salad crops, onions-“

“Okay, okay, so you did read that. Good. We’ll have to clear land first for the crops and it’ll have to be outside our current stockade. I was thinking if we started near to where the bonfire currently is and-“

“There?” Thor cuts in, startled. “But we’ll be building settlement structures there in a year or two. Surely it’s better to have the fields further out?” He can’t imagine anything more depressing than clearing a stretch of land to agricultural standard one year, only to have to repeat the process again the year after. And, if that is to be their current way of planning their settlement, maybe clearing further land again and again in the years that follow. “No. I think it’s better that we pick a permanent space for arable land.”

Valkyrie’s gaze is hard, but at length she only nods and says, “As you will.” Strangely, Thor thinks she sounds relieved at his paltry resistance. “However, I strongly suggest that we build the bathhouse here. I, for one, am certainly not walking further every day to clean myself.”

Thor looks at the ground, but there’s nothing much to see. Only snow interrupted by an odd up-thrust of dark grey granite. “How far under here does the water flow?”

Her smile truly evil, Valkyrie pulls a sizable flask out of her pack and settles herself upon one of the large boulders. “That, my king, is for you to find out.”

*

An axe is no tool for hacking at stone, but then a war god is no man to go building a settlement. It takes maybe thirty minutes and working up a warm, satisfying burn in his muscles to reach the water, maybe half his height down into the rock.

But to make a bathing pool? Or maybe even two pools; one for relaxing in and, further down, one for washing the day’s dirt away? That will require more depth. Maybe even a small fall of water if he’s to make a suitably-sized lagoon despite the land sloping as it does.

For a moment Thor stops, leaning on Stormbreaker and hoping Eitri never sees him misuse the tool so.

If he’s making this properly, then they need an anti-chamber that the water can arrive in to be heated. However, maybe a cold-water pool would appeal more to some. Loki had always favoured the rainwater pools at the palace, while Thor lounged in water near hot enough to scald the skin.

So Thor will have to divide the supply. One half to a heating pool, with space for a hearth below it, and the other straight down to a chill bath, though one near enough to the warmer pool for easy communication between the two.

Cleaning pools would be below that, using overflow water from the hot pool. Although perhaps one or two should be fed from the higher, clean source for small groups to make use of – families with young children, or shy adolescents, or even the injured desirous of not being jostled. Somewhere to relax in privacy.

“This is going to require quite a large roof for cover.” He’s as much thinking out loud as talking to Valkyrie. “When we remake the communal hall in stone, we can reuse its timbers to extend.”

He doesn’t see Valkyrie’s lips curl into a smile; she hides the slip behind her flask.

*

It’s late, he’s worn to near exhaustion, and the work on the pools is far from done when he returns to his cabin.

As predicted, he smells as bad returning as he did when leaving that morning.

But tomorrow he’ll get further into making the baths and further again the day after and the day after that.

Plus he’s now the ruler of a realm with nearly a hundred stone hand-axes. He’s not sure when, exactly, Valkyrie had left him. But at some point she’d presumably gone in search of more alcohol as an excuse to teach her ‘recruits’, none of whom had become lost in the gloom.

Thor’s in a good mood when his eyes fall upon the box.

For a moment, he balks at the idea of ruining his fair temper. But his elation is already fled, leaving him with a strange, doom-ridden hollowness.

Sitting on his bed, he lifts the box into his lap. It’s a large enough container, larger than he’d have thought his possessions warranted, but seemingly light after a day’s heavy labour. Drawing the stone axe he’s been gifted from his belt – Valkyrie’s ‘reward’ for the ‘best’ was to confiscate it and award it to their king – Thor slits the packing tape and folds back the flaps.

The first thing he sees is the letter.

He’s never been a coward, so he refuses to back down now. With curiously steady hands, he picks it up. At least in this, Jane has made things easier for him; she’s not sealed the envelop shut.

_Thor,_

_I’m sorry to send this to you in such a way. (Yes, I know what ‘one should never willingly partake in action for which they will needs be apologise’. In my defence, it would appear that there’s no regular air or road service to your current location and that, even among the people who do know how to reach you, no one seems particularly keen to transport the evil ex to see you.)_

_Returning the contents of this box is not me kicking you out of my life. This is never going to be about me cutting you out of my life._

_You have been my friend, my companion and my lover for years. It is a romance which may not have lasted, but please do not confuse that with an end in our friendship. You are always going to be my friend and I will always love our friendship. (Isn’t it sad how rarely we tell the people that we care the most about in our lives, how much we love them?)_

_I know that you must be busy with your people now. They need you and you need them. However, if there is ever anything that I can do, let me know. I have never doubted that I could turn to you if I found myself in need; please have faith in the same from me._

_I hope that, one day soon, I will get a chance to tell you all of this in person._

_Until then, I thought that these items, which you left in my apartment, might be more use with you._

_Always your friend,_

_Jane_

For a moment Thor just holds the letter. The paper it is written on is smooth; the paper she used in the printing systems of her computer devices, not the nicer weight sheets she commonly employed for handwritten missives.

He wonders how many times she wrote her words out before settling on this, the ‘final’ version, and it’s with surprise that he realises he’s smiling.

With so many dead, he hadn’t realised there yet lives another being he knows so well.

*

Eventually it’s time to look at what, exactly, it is that Jane’s sent.

Unsurprisingly the box contains a collection of things he’s forgotten about over the years he spent travelling to and from Midgard in addition to a few mundane sets of spare items. There are Midgardian clothes, but also an old cloak that Thor doesn’t remember having left with Jane. There’s a jumper he’d wear when out on the streets of human cities, now looking even more worn; doubtless appropriated by Jane only to be returned now in a futile attempt to meet his loss. An old hairbrush, still tangled with long strands of his hair, is in a small box of toiletries including a small vial of scent.

For a moment his eyes brim over. He remembers his mother making this for him. Hands shaking, he unstoppers the vial, raising the scent of home to his nose. Alas, that it is half empty already!

He’d laugh at his own greed; so frustrated to have an entire half of something precious, where before he had nothing at all!

But there is more in the box.

There is a blanket with vibrant patterns that he’d bought in Asgard’s markets and made a gift of for Jane.

_This is never going to be about me cutting you out of my life_ , she’d written. And then sent this back to him. Not to shed it from her life, but to remind him of his home.

_A people are their arts and their culture as much as their flesh_. How had Jane seen so clearly what it would take Eir telling Thor before he could even begin to consider it?

One fold of the blanket parts to reveal a case that he knows too well. Square and flat, the jewellery box looks much as it used to on his mother’s table, and Thor sets it aside unopened, because he cannot bare to begin crying again. Another twist of the blanket, and there’s a mead jug that Jane had taken to filling with flowers. And, then, wrapped in the heart of the blanket, there are books.

For a moment Tor just sits at his desk, the rich reds and blues and oranges of the blanket spilling every which-way over the functional surface and piling into his lap. Slowly, hesitantly, he strokes one of the book’s spines.

Thor knows he’s no veracious reader; he’s not his brother. But he does, actually, pick up a book upon occasion.

Apparently he’d also put them down. Had left some at Jane’s. Perhaps she’d had a point about how quickly he’d be taken from his leisure, joyously running to battle and leaving everything behind.

The books are, mostly, nothing special. Two historic documentations of wars long since gone; the saga of an itinerant healer, that Jane had indulgently let Thor read, chapter-by-chapter and night-by-night, out loud to her; and a small, bound collection of children’s fables, gifted to him by his father and which Loki had stolen centuries back.

It had been the only thing Thor had taken from his brother’s room, after Svaltalfheim.

Underneath it, there’s a slim folio in a language Jane won’t have realised isn’t Asgardian.

The _Many Majics_ is a difficult book for Thor to read. He’s yet to finish it. Not for the cryptic turn of its phrase nor the language it’s written in, but simply because he can never progress more than a line or two before his eyes spill over and he is forced to turn away, for fear of ruining the crumbling manuscript, from the words that his brother should have learned.

For the _Many Majics_ is a Jotunn text, one gifted to Thor by their now-King, Byleistr, against the advice of his brother, Helblindi.

Thor hasn’t heard from Jotunheim, nor any other among the Nine Realms, since Asgard fell.


	4. Mid December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [AU, NO ENDGAME SPOILERS] Thor’s well aware that his people are permitted to remain only on Midgard’s forbearance. So when a request comes in to help rescue some stranded astronauts from alien invaders, it seems like the least he can do. Then things get tragic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So, fairly obviously Endgame has happened since the last instalment. It’s probably worth pointing out that this story is *entirely* AU and will not have *any* spoilers. I got as far into writing the arc as possible before Endgame to try and ensure that. Currently I’ve a draft of the entire first story; two chapters of the second story; and another 50,000 words of random scenes up until the end of the forth story. Now I just need to get on with posting…

After days of snow, there comes one morning of pure sunlight and still blue skies. Thor wakes resolved to take a team out, into the forest, and gather more timber. The walkway from the communal hall to the ship took most of their reserves and, frankly, sending people into the storm-tossed woods mid-winter, even those beings more than willing to go, had seemed foolhardy.

It will be as good to have the younglings blow off some steam as it will be to have some spare resources to start upon a new project. Maybe a guest hall or a healer’s quarters. Though there have been demands for extensions to the public bathing house, too.

Needless to say, the ‘invasion’ starts later that afternoon.

*

The first Thor knows of any troubles is when the unfamiliar helicopter, during landing, throws barely settled snow back up into the air. As the snow patters back down around him, Thor has half a thought that one of the two young sisters, Ingrid and Astrid, must have been showing off with their Seidr-weaving. He’s raising his head to give them a sharp telling off when he spots the true cause of the chaos.

For a moment, with horrible lurching guilt, he’s certain it’s some government official come to ask for their paperwork, still, as yet, unsigned.

As such, it would be putting it mildly to say that the appearance of the Lady Pepper, stepping somewhat uncertainly from the belly of the machine, is a relief.

It feels strange to smile as he strides forward to catch her hand and help her across the snowdrifts, but Thor perseveres.

Pepper smiles back. “Thank you. Wow. It’s a little cold here!”

“You get used to it.” Though it’s only as he speaks the words that Thor realises how true this has become.

“Obviously,” Lady Pepper laughs and playfully taps at his bare arms. “If I tried to wander around in the snow wearing a vest like that, I’d soon die of hypothermia.”

“The work is warming.” Thor says, then adds, “But you didn’t come here for that purpose.”

“No.” She’s frowning slightly, looking uncertainly around the clearing he’s made in the forest; thick trunks have been hacked roughly branchless and stacked in a loose pile. They’re not deep in the woods here – maybe she can even see the smoke column behind him, rising form Landing’s cooking fires. “Are you busy?”

Thor is always busy these days. And never busy.

There are always tasks to complete, and no one to disappoint if he fails at them. Someday he wonders if perhaps he has died, and this is Helheim. Whether he is being punished with endless, indeterminate labour for his failures.

Whether he will ever see his family, his friends, in Valhalla.

He tries to shake the thought away, for, truly, if this is Helheim, then he should count himself lucky. Now he has all the time in his days to remember those he loves and the centuries he held them close. To consider his remembrance a curse is to call the shades of his companions, worthless; the bards, torturers; and the sanctity of his mind, vexing.

That, he will not do.

Leaning on Stormbreaker’s pommel, he smiles at the Lady Pepper. And, aye, his smile might be sad, but it’s still a smile, and this lady, at least, has someone she can turn to for strength and comfort. Someone who is not him. “Tell me of your need, my lady.”

“Well, not for you to take this the wrong way or anything, but first on my list might be that I need to have a way to get in contact with you. One that doesn’t involve flying for nearly eight hours.” But then, her smile too fades, leaving a certain wariness and, though Thor is sure he is not meant to see it, fear. “There’s been an incident.”

“Is Stark-“ For Thor can think of no other reason for her hesitance, but thankfully she cuts him short.

“No. Nothing like that. Heaven forbid!” She brushes a stray strand of hair back from her face. “It’s just that, apparently, Earth’s being invaded.”

*

Twenty minutes later, and Thor is flying as fast as he can, across the open oceans of Midgard, still non-the-clearer as to what _exactly_ is going on.

According to the Lady Pepper, S.H.I.E.L.D. had received a transmission, nine hours earlier that day, from a spacecraft closing rapidly on the International Space Station. The transmission issued demands that the Earth surrender then fell silent. Ten minutes later, the demands were repeated, only this time five astronauts – all brilliant in their field and role models for Midgard – where being held under threat of death.

Apparently the time for response is one cycle.

No one know what span of time, exactly, a ‘cycle’ refers to.

The ISS has a periodicity of 92 minutes. Nothing had happened in that timeframe. In contrast, the cycle of a solar year seems excessively long for a hostage situation. By a highly dubious process of elimination, it transpires that the leaders of Midgard are assuming that they have 24 mortal hours.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is scrambling everything it has to get into space; which unfortunately isn’t really intended to do so rapidly. King T’Challa has been contacted and is sending a shuttle. And Tony Stark is fiddling with his suits, trying to pick out the best combination of space-worthiness and fire power.

It seems both cruel and unnecessarily pedantic to tell the Lady Pepper that there is a noticeable difference between her planet’s daily cycle as observed from measuring noon to noon on Midgard’s surface and from measuring a complete rotation of a fixed point on the planet from space. The second variant of the cycle is four minutes less. And four minutes less is, in combat, four _whole_ minutes less and thus not to be neglected. Thor had told the Lady Pepper as much. Hopefully she’s currently passing on this message to someone else; maybe it will be useful, maybe not, but Thor himself dislikes waiting, unable to contribute. Maybe this will distract her, if only for a second, from the worry she feels for Stark.

It doesn’t distract him from the fear for his people, all but unguarded above that exposed fjord.

They need better defences. He needs to find a way of making contact with the other realms. There are garrisons on them; not large, true, but of impeccable warriors. Thor has either fought with or, at least, trained besides many of those warriors over the centuries. If he could bring them to Landing-

But that requires transportation as well as communication, and he has neither.

True, the Commodore could carry a messenger, albeit slowly, and maybe something more rapid could be arranged from the other end for a return. Yet, when picking someone to travel, even to Alfheim, the closest of the realms, Thor would be to condemn that messenger to months alone in the perilous depths of space in a ship meant for little more than casual ship-to-surface jaunts.

As for the secret routes through Yggdrasil’s limbs; knowledge of those paths died with Loki.

Even the mere chance to gaze upon another realm is lost; Heimdall’s vision blurred and unfocussed beyond any hope for clarity in the absence of his Observatory. The Master of the Gates may well be able to see throughout Landing and across the mortal world, yet the further reaches of Odin’s realms are beyond them all in their current state of disarray.

It is something he will have to put more thought to, after the current crisis is averted.

Stark’s location, when Thor reaches it, is almost eerily quiet. The whole place is lit with small, sparkling lights and strewn with oddly formed metallic ropes. If Thor hadn’t caught sight of the large, evergreen tree in to the home, he might have thought the site already attacked by the alien invaders. As it is, he’s reminded of the human yule rituals just before he launches himself through the conveniently large glass windows to hack at the decorations.

He’d not realised so much time had passed. Time since Ragnarok; time since he found his sister and destroyed her. Since half of everyone left and then was returned.

_This will be my first yule with no kin_ , he thinks, the thought so clear and piercing that it is as if someone had spoken the words aloud.

“There is no time for this foolishness.” There! If words will haunt his thoughts; then let them be his own!

If he is to be kinless this yule, let it not also be a state that afflicts others. He will save the astronauts. And the astronauts’ relatives will still have their kin as the year turns back to face the summer.

When Friday lets Thor in to Stark’s residence, it is to direct him to the basement. In said location, Stark looks up from a bench, waves distractedly and proceeds to frantically continue doing _something_ with a screwdriver while also ordering various robotics arms around. “I see Pepper found you. You know, we need a better way of communicating.”

Clearly the Lady Pepper and her man are of the same opinion. “I could-“

“Don’t say email.” Stark brandishes the screwdriver in a manner that would be threatening save that he snatches it back almost immediately, dramatic pose ruined, in favour of doing whatever it is that he’s doing. “Strange told me all about your attitude to email. Just for the record, it made me very sad.”

Thor seems to be making lots of people sad at the moment.

Pacing cautiously around the perimeter of the room, he wonders how to make amends.

“Hey, hey! Point Break, not over there!” Thor’s stopped at the first syllable; it’s a tone he knows too well from days walking Asgard’s palace: looking in on Loki with his rune-strewn implements; mother with her bubbling potions; father with his papers of the realms. Sometimes it seems like all Thor can remember of his childhood days is of being told not to touch things lest he break them.

In hindsight, it was probably a good warning, for now he has broken an entire realm. Maybe the Odinsleep showed hints of Asgard’s fate to his father, provoking such calls to take care.

“That table.” Stark is saying, attention still mostly on the project in front of him and arm gesturing wildly off behind Thor. “The other- I mean that- Hey, Sleepy! Show Thor the bomb-proof-thingy.”

A bomb-proof-thingy sounds like a useful weapon in their upcoming battle so Thor turns towards the robotic minion Stark has called into motion. As he moves, his cloak billows out, gently brushing the nearby legs of a table. Carefully, Thor puts out a hand to still the fabric. Stark’s inventions are rarely so frail as to be disturbed by the merest of contacts, but Thor’s fallen out of the habit of wearing such loose clothing. Even his breastplate and vambrace, armour he’s worn since a young lad, feels strange after months without them. Stormbreaker alone feels familiar, a discordant realization. He’d never thought he’d feel balanced while absent of Mjolnir.

How long before Sif, Fandral, Hogun and Volstagg, too, cease to feel as aught but an aching absence?

Or his father? His brother?

Even now, remembrances of his mother taste more sweet than bitter.

“Thank you, Sleepy.” The words feel as though they fall from wooden lips as Thor takes the… thingy from Stark’s helper. “This is very…” he gives it an uncertain once-over, taking in the shiny surface mounted in what looks like a picture-frame, “flat.” Then, to Stark, “You’re giving to me another phone?”

“Jesus! Don’t shout! And you’re welcome. Think of it as an early Christmas present. And don’t break this one.”

“I don’t need a phone.” There are people enough petitioning him without this device from Stark.

“I need for you to have a phone. And please, please, pretty please, don’t take the armour on it as a challenge.” Then, as Stark turns around, arms spread, “What do you think?”

Stark clearly means for Thor to comment on the modified helm he’s wearing. There are tubes that seem to run towards some sort of connector around his back, but why he thinks Thor can offer a solid critique of it, Thor will never know. Instead he comments on the phone. “We don’t have charging points at Landing.”

“It’s solar powered. Leave it out in the sun.”

“We don’t have much of that either.”

Stark lets out an impatient hiss. “I’ll work on that problem for the second edition. The mask-“ he jabs his hands at his face, “-do the connections look secure?”

Putting the phone down on the table – because where’s he going to keep it? – Thor moves over to Stark and raises his hands, “Let me-“

Stark jerks back, the moment startled and clear in its distrust. “Gently does it. It’s not braced on anything. I don’t want you to go breaking my neck.”

Something of the sickness Thor feels sweep through him must show, because the next instant Stark’s opened up the helmet and is looking worriedly at him. “Are you good for this?” Warm hands clasp against Thor’s shoulders, then Stark’s got a hand on his face, turning it his way and that in the light, as though Thor were one of his constructs. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve been through hell. It’s okay to call it time out and-“

“And leave my people defenceless, as well as yours?”

Stark pulls a face. “Well, I’d like to think not entirely defenceless. What with there being me and T’Challa. Then there’s Steve and Coulson and… you get my point. Do you get mine?”

“I will be well.” He will have to be well. He’s a god of battle; he’s born for this. “It will be good for me.”

“Yeah.” Tony doesn’t seem convinced, but he steps back from Thor, letting him go. Is it weak of Thor to miss being held already? “If you say so.”

“I say so.”

“Okay then. In that case, this is for you.” Stark casually tosses a metal disk, smaller than the palm of his hand, at Thor. Unlike the phone, this comes with a clip, presumably to make it easy to carry around.

“Another early Christmas gift?” Thor asks, carefully. It gleams gold and red, which are the colours of the Midgardian festivities and also Thor’s colours. And Stark’s. There are lines in the disk, indicating that it will separate and move apart, though what the end formation will be is far from clear.

“Nope. That’s for the battle.” Stark takes the disk back, presses it to Thor’s forehead – which makes him blink, so that he misses the next step – and there’s a whirring sound. When Thor’s opened his eyes, there’s… something across his vision. “Idiot though Star-Lord may be, it’s quite a nifty design. I’ve improved upon it, naturally.”

“I do not need a mask to protect me from space, my friend.”

“But you need one if you want to talk. And we would like you to talk. Also to listen. Coordination is good.”

Stark reaches up, and this time Thor follows his movements as he taps the centre of the mask’s forehead causing it to retract and fall away from his face. “So, after you check my connections, we should be good to go. Are you okay getting yourself up into space or should I have T’Challa swing by here after he collects Steve?”

*

Space is… much as Thor remembers it.

Dark and empty and cold. Vaguely claustrophobic for all its immense expanse.

Off to one side there’s the light and heat that signifies Stark’s thrusters and, further beyond Stark, the dark shadow of Wakanda’s and S.H.I.E.L.D.’s separate ships. Yet the most magnificent object by far is the gently glowing sphere far below Thor’s feet. Clouds shift across its surface, interrupting the blue expanses of sea and muddy browns of a northern hemisphere winter. The night’s terminus near perfectly bisects the planet, dragging behind it a darkness richly clad in the golden sparkles signifying the spread of human civilisation.

Somewhere towards the pole lie the remnants of Asgard’s civilisation – his people, too few to even be noticeable upon this world.

The sun is distant if bright; its radiation near unnoticeable by comparison to that of Nidavellir’s focused might.

Beyond the Earth, the alien mothership is hidden.

“The ISS should be coming into view shortly.” Steve’s voice cuts through the void’s silence. “Remember folks, it’ll be moving fast.”

He’s not joking, Thor realises, when he spots the small glimmer drawing nearer. Shifting his flight direction to intercept the station, Thor ignores Stark’s distant scutter of, “I would love to know how the physics of that works.” He pushes harder; aiming to meet the ISS as soon as possible.

“Just be gentle, Thor,” Natasha’s voice sounds clear through the mask’s earpiece. “Remember that the ISS is a pressurised vessel and isn’t really built to withstand unexpected structural stress.”

“Your caution is noted.” But not really needed. He’s spent how many months in space now?

Thor’s actually starting to slow in preparation for landing on the hull, when he realises just now _small_ the ISS actually is, nearly scuppering his landing and, despite all the warnings and his complacency, almost scuttling the vessel. Because being smaller than anticipated means that it’s both closer and faster than Thor had accounted for and he ends up slewing past the station, grip on Stormbreaker wrenching his shoulder hard before he can land, almost cat-soft, on the vessel’s far side.

It takes him a moment to realise that his jaw’s hurting because he’s grinning.

Stark had been clear – very, very clear – that Thor is not to go bursting into the station. He’s the backup here; intended to keep an eye out for any alien reinforcements. Indeed, watching the Wakandan vessel trying to navigate the airlock, he can see that the pressure equalisation of which Stark spoke is far from simple for these primitive vessels.

He can also see that they’re going far too slowly. A rescue mission where the hostage-takers have time to prepare for boarding becomes a case of walking into a trap.

There’s a dim rattle through the hull, and Stark’s voice says, “Landed,” at almost the same point T’Challa says, “Ready for boarding.”

Even the briefest of glance down at Midgard shows that the terminator appears to have leapt forward; night now covering nearly sixty percent of the surface as they race to lap the planet. The alien vessel is on the planet’s dayside. Not long now until they sweep around to meet it.

Thor needs more information as to how his companions’ quest proceeds. Maybe he should have stayed on one of the ships. Save that then he’d be too far away to offer help.

Creeping towards one of the ISS’s portals might offer him some information or may just outline him for attack by an unknown weapon. Are the aliens clad for survival in vacuum? Or resistant to its chill as is Thor? Is the possibility of the hostage-takers willingly damaging the fragile human structure a real likelihood with which Thor should be concerned? Thor’s questions multiply.

Clangs and thumps suddenly start to reverberate through the grip Thor’s keeping on the hull. He’d love to see through the thin metal skin; unfortunately it’s not within the skillset of a god. Maybe, though, Stark can modify his mechanical eye. It would be pleasant to find some advantage to his partial blindness.

Night now covers three quarters of the planet below.

“Any progress?” He asks.

“Not now!” General Okoye snaps. An answer or a reprimand?

A gurgling scream over the comm-link chills Thor’s blood. He’d so hoped that they’d conduct this affray without excessive harm.

“No!”

“Help! Oh, please help me! I-“

“Where are you? Tell me-“

Voices talk loudly over one another; Thor’s far from sure that his being able to hear helps. He needs to get inside! Pushing himself along the hull to the place where T’Challa’s ship meets the station is as effortless as floating the bathhouse’s pool, but once there Thor hesitates, uncertain how to proceed without causing irreparable harm to either system.

Light, shocking and sudden as an explosion, blossoms across the scene.

Glancing over his shoulder, Thor feels his teeth bare in a ferocious grin. The would-be invader’s ship hangs in the vastness, wreathed in light and flickering with energy in preparation for battle. There’s no time to decide whether the immense vessel has come in response to a signal from the captive ISS or whether its captain merely grew weary of watching the far side of the earth.

Now it’s here; a vessel Thor’s more than welcome to attack.

“What the hell!” Stark’s clearly seen it too.

“I’m on it.” Thor snaps then launches himself into the void between them.

As he flies, or, depending on perspective, possibly plummets or drifts, the details of the ship come into view from behind its bright lights. She’s a huge, hulking thing. Nearly twice the width of the New Statesman and bristling with sufficient gunmetal-grey spikes to have doubtless appealed to Hela’s aesthetic.

Any one of those spikes could have towered over the tallest of trees in his forests. Thor’s still a distance out from them; barely beginning to grasp their true size, when a swarming motion makes itself know out of the corner of his good eye. Thousands – maybe hundreds of thousands – of lights fill the space around the alien vessel like starlings flocking in the skies. Stark’s _“incoming”_ is somewhat unhelpful, as even the quickest of glances shows Thor that the incoming lights, whatever manner of vessel they are, are incoming from everywhere. How came the aliens by so many ships?

Thor briefly considers trying to outrun them, but they seem to be present wherever he turns; indistinct and bright. For a moment Thor thinks a cluster of three attack vessels are closing in on his position and he starts to press harder to arrive at the nearest spike tip. Maybe if he swerves around it he can gather some cover that way for surely the attack vessels won’t wish to harm the mother ship. But then the three lights converge in a piercing ache on his arm and Thor realises that the swarm, whatever else they are, are absolutely _tiny_. Mosquitoes, not birds.

Tiny and, more to the point, rapidly getting close enough to be all over him.

Throwing himself into a tight spin, Thor tries to shake free of the three on his arm, batting ineffectively with his hand and hindered by his grip on Stormbreaker. Revulsed, Thor realises that they’re actually attempting to burrowing _into_ his skin.

“Hey. Point Break. What’s going on over there?” Stark’s voice is not exactly concerned; maybe exasperated that he’s having to turn attention away from whatever it is that he’s up to.

It’s a feeling Thor has some sympathy with. Currently he’d like to be dedicating rather more of his attention to twisting faster and further between the spikes. Anything to outrun the bugs. But Stark will, being Stark, continue to demand information until informed to his satisfaction.

“The attackers are… insects.” Not really, but Thor’s not sure how else to describe the tiny things with their mandibles.

As he watches, one of the trio, tiring of Thor’s skin, tries to take a nip from his armour. Alarmingly enough, that seems to work.

“Really? Because they’re reading as mechanical to me.”

The metal doesn’t seem to be to the bug’s taste thankfully, and it re-joins its fellows in trying to pierce Thor’s skin. He really hopes they don’t decide to migrate to his eyes. Suddenly the mask, despite providing Stark a chance to harry Thor, feels like a reassuring barrier. Assuming it can hold back the metal-munching bugs.

Speaking of, Thor spots a small cluster just ahead and ducks under them.

Close. Too close. He needs to focus. Because, mechanical or not, they’re doing a fine job of trying to find his blood. Thor’s actually worried that they might come close.

“Cap.” Stark’s saying. “Any chance you guys spotted where the sparkly insects came from? I have no idea where they came from.”

“The ship.” Steve says, “We’re running more scans, but they seem to have come from ports near to the surface. Can you…?”

“They’re insistent.” Thor feels like this might be pertinent information.

As they’re not shaking off. Thor careens into a passing spike, for the first time in his existence sincerely worried he might graze his skin, leaving himself open to infestation. One thing Thor does not, under any circumstances, want to consider is those insects creeping about, inside his body.

Thumping pain flairs in his side as he smashes into the spire. He feels it start to yaw then tear free, but his attention is otherwise occupied with his arm.

“Thankfully, it appears they can be crushed.” Two more land on his elbow. “Unfortunately there are rather a lot of them.”

“If you can head back out towards us, I can try zapping you with-“

A spark lands on Thor’s visor.

There’s half a heartbeat when Thor thinks, _this could be trouble_. Then the bug breaks through Stark’s amazing creation and Thor finds that his reflexes make any further decision-making unnecessary.

In the sudden radio silence after flinging the mask away, Thor throws himself, as fast as possible, towards the bulk of the ship. Distantly he’s aware that his vision is blurring over. But so long as it’s the icy vacuum of space, not those damned creatures, he’s not worried.

In between the spikes he catches glimpses of the hull; of long sweeping swirls of metal and almost beautiful geometric patterns in rainbow colours. The odd juxtaposition makes the ship’s front face look like nothing so much as a series of spears standing balanced on someone’s ornamental, mosaicked floor.

Thor crashes through that floor.

Atmosphere explodes past him. The force and fury of it tries to fling him back into space.

Holding firm, axe embedded the far wall of whatever space he’s entered, Thor squints his eyes and waits for things to make sense again. If the bugs are part of the ship’s defence system, then surely they’ll not enter? And, if they form some sort of… deep space flea, hitching a lift on the ship, then hopefully the inhabitants have found some way of repelling them.

Not that Thor should expect such good luck when engaging an enemy. Maybe all the folk here are immune to the sparks’ bites?

Atmosphere fully vented, it’s suddenly possible to move again. His eyes ache, but Thor’s fairly certain that the bugs on his elbow are gone. Without the tug of the decompression, he’s aware of a gentle force pulling his feet in a different direction to the orientation he wants to keep them in. Apparently the ‘floor’ is above his head.

Flipping over to land, Thor tries to take stock of his situation.

He’s boarded a giant spaceship and is currently in a small chamber with a beautifully detailed floor and, when he glances back the way that he came, it would appear that the will he crashed through is perfectly transparent. At a distance, the bugs are beautiful, glowing lights; a moving twin to the stars beyond. The view to eternity would be breath-taking if he couldn’t see glitter hanging around the truncated form of the ISS.

Something out there has gone dreadfully wrong.

Closer to home, the hole he punched through the transparent wall is shrinking.

For a moment, Thor thinks it’s his vision that’s fooling him. But even as he considers this, the hole is drawing in on itself; cracks that once stretched most of the way across the room are receding. The window is mending itself, with Thor inside.

He has half a second to feel, alarmingly enough, like one of the bugs he’d earlier been trying so hard to keep outside of his body. Then, as quickly as the atmosphere departed, it returns.

The shockwave puts Thor on his knees.

Through stinging eyes and with his hands clasped over his ears, it takes Thor a moment to make out rushed moment closing in on him. Then something grabs for his shoulder and he’s yanked backwards.

Instinct has Thor rise up with his opponent’s moment, one leg rising higher and faster to catch the form of a second opponent at what would be chest-height in a mortal. The form attacking him is sent careening into the far wall. Reaching back, Thor gets his wrist around the appendage holding him, drops, throws the thing over his body as he falls, and rolls to his feet.

Spinning, he realises that he’s been surrounded. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven of the alien invaders. It’s always good to know that he’s being taken seriously.

Not as seriously as he should be, maybe, but it’s a start.

With a roar, he drops his head and charges the nearest form. Tall, but gauntly thin and clad in shimmering black armour, the being bears more than a hint of resemblance to Hela’s creatures.

The creature goes down like a felled tree. One limb swings up, trying to bring something small and shiny – a laser gun? – to bear, but Thor strikes down on its helmet and it collapses to stillness.

Throwing himself to one side, Thor narrowly misses a laser blast, catches two of the soldiers with lightening; beheads a third; knocks the forth though the internal wall; and ducks a hastily thrown punch by the fifth, throwing that being into the sixth solider.

The room is suddenly still.

The sounds of rasping breathing fills the air and someone lets out a pained sound. They fought well, and Thor hopes that they are not unduly damaged; concern that lasts for a second before he remembers that they’ve destroyed a defenceless Midgardian science base and threatened every being on the planet. Then he turns his back on them. Let them live or let them die; he has work to do.

It transpires that the room he’s arrived in has a door. Opening it is like stepping into a different realm. Surely none of Loki’s doorways could be so disconcerting?

Something thickly sweet perfumes the air. Green tendrils coat the walls in a thousand shades of life, with things that can only be leaves and buds and fruit; all of them laid one over the other until it’s near impossible to remember that he’s in a space-bound vessel, not some thick jungle.

Confused, Thor glances first left than right. There’s no discernible difference. Just plants as far as the eye can see.

Picking the right-hand direction at random, Thor starts to jog.

One cycle they’d said. One cycle ‘til they killed the scientists.

The scientists may well be dead by now, though Thor hopes to the Norns that they are safe on board the Wakandan vessel.

What had the invaders planned to do next?

How has the destruction of the ISS altered their plans?

What offensive capabilities do they have?

He’s beginning to regret throwing the facemask away. Maybe he could have removed it, but taken Stark’s communication circuit at the least. Surely that could have been snapped off cleanly?

The corridor that Thor’s following ends, though maybe it would be more accurate to say that it spits into three new directions, gravity going dizzy for a moment before following perfectly along all three differently-oriented passages. Thor takes the route going ‘up’. Then the one going ’right’. Up, right, up, right. He seems to be going everywhere and nowhere. Only subtle variations in the vegetation reassures him that he’s not running on the spot as he was in the gladiatorial pit.

He’s seriously considering hacking straight through the walls, when, dashing around one more corner, he skids to a stop.

The young child – and it can only be a young child – looks up at him; all wide, innocent eyes. First one, then the other two, blink in clear surprise. The hand holding a tiny paintbrush droops uncertainly, knocking the head off a flower.

In the juvenile form, and without the armour, Earth’s invaders are tiny, faintly purple, and fizzy as a kitten. Little tiger strips run across the child’s face in perfect symmetry save for the odd wart.

“Who are you?” It asks in a voice of little chirrups, which the Allspeak renders almost songlike.

“I’m Thor.” Says Thor. “Who are you?”

“I’m a bee,” the child says, with that curious sense of solemnity only the very young can express. At least, the Allspeak translates the chirrup as ‘bee’, though Thor thinks it’s more likely that the local pollinating insect of the child’s planet is what is truly meant. “I’m dusting the flowers.”

Which is when it seems to notice that it has decapitated one of the flowers. Its nose starts to wobble in a gesture that Thor just knows has to be akin to one of his younglings verging on tears.

He’s saved from having to decide between comforting the child and pushing on past it, by an adult darting around the corridor’s curve, heading towards them. Even without the Allspeak, the delighted cry of child to parent would have been clear. As would the terrified horror of the parent at seeing its child next to an alien invader.

Except that these are the invaders, not Thor.

Watching the parent throw itself at its child; limbs coiling around the ‘bee’, body trying to both shield its young and disappear into the foliage-covered wall at the same time, Thor realises that it’s a long time since he’s travelled to any realm merely to be feared and held in awe.

“My child. My child. Please don’t be hurt, my beloved child.” It’s clear that the parent doesn’t realise Thor can understand it.

“Can you take me to your Elders?” He asks, and tries to make his voice gentle. If the look he receives is any indication, he might as well not have bothered.

“Stay aways. Stay aways. Will bite you.” The teeth bared in aggression at Thor are pathetically blunt and short, but the protective intent is clear.

Raising his hands in peace, Thor slips past the pair, backs up to the corner the parent emerged from, then resumes his search.

What type of army carries civilians with it? What civilians bring their young to conquest?

Jogging gives him time to ponder; he doesn’t like the direction his thoughts flow in.

What type of people have their young tending to the crops? Certainly not an advanced civilisation; not usually. Yet this civilisation is spacefaring.

And what type of people transform every surface of their ship to agriculture, when any civilisation should have planets available for supply runs?

Finally the corridors seem to open up ahead; light brightening as Thor escapes the confines of vegetation.

What type of people are desperate enough to attack a habituated planet, using only a single vessel?

Then someone emerges from a dark corner, raises a gun, and laser light flashes out.

*

Thor wakes slowly.

He’s on his back; he realises. And no one seems to have bothered to tie him down.

For a moment he tries to figure out where he is; what he’s doing; but it takes him a moment. He’s still dressed and, as far as he can tell, no one has bound or restrained him in any way. But Stormbreaker’s missing. There’s a buzzing in his ears and blinding light is all around. Honestly, his first thought is that a concussive blast has knocked him silly. Really, it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that both the buzzing and light are real.

Rolling over, he realises he’s in a slim alcove, the top of which emits light in perfect uniformity. From what he can see, there are other alcoves across a large, open hallway. And other bodies – fuzzy, purple bodies – in those alcoves.

Slipping out of the alcove, Thor’s boots touch down on a soft, giving floor. Looking left and right reveals two things: namely that he feels vaguely dizzy, but otherwise fine, and also that the hall that he’s in seems to go on for a very long way. It’s possible that the sheer unrelenting repetition of the hall he’s in exacerbates his feelings of disorientation.

There are beings in all of the alcoves Thor can see.

His first thought, naturally enough, is that he’s in some sort of stasis chamber, looking at warriors awaiting transportation to a final battle ground. Then he remembers that he’s not on a warship; quite the opposite.

Maybe the sleeping beings are dreaming of a new world to colonise.

One they’ll only reach if Thor can stop Stark, Steve and the rest of the Avengers from doing something horribly permanent. Unfortunately, the odds of them doing something horribly permanent rose with the crushing of the human ISS and will further shoot up exponentially if the little golden bugs destroy one of their vessels.

Thor staggers to his feet, determined to find either the bridge or some form of internal ship’s communication system.

Unfortunately, the first thing he sees is his neighbour.

The being isn’t sleeping.

Thor’s not on a refugee ship; he’s on a plague ship. This ‘stasis chamber’ is a morgue.

He would like to hope that he’s made a mistake, but all the signs are present. The boils around the face; the patchy, ill-groomed fur; the haunting gauntness. This creature is dead and did not die in battle.

The next alcove makes the story clearer yet. The form within has clearly been reassembled after dissection. Thor wonders who opened up the corpse and what they hoped to find. Whatever it was, it’s clearly not been sufficient to help the others on the ship.

Fleetingly his mind falls to the little ‘bee’ child. Was it, too, dying slowly? Or were some on this ship immune and in the slow, frail steps to regaining their health?

Who are these beings and where have they come from?

Why, of all planets, have they brought their troubles to Midgard? And in such a way! If only they had asked…

Thor’s stomach turns, remembering that bundle of UN papers he’s yet to address.

Maybe these people have tried to ask for aid before, in other systems. Maybe they too have been served more papers quoting higher prices than they are able to meet. Maybe the universe isn’t so welcoming as Thor’d always found the Nine Realms.

_(Maybe his – and Asgard’s – place in the Nine Realms are no more.)_

But this is not the time to loose one’s self in reflection. Thor starts to look for an exit to the morgue. The hall he’s in is blade shaped. Long, narrow, and slowly tapering down as he jogs. Hopefully it won’t turn out that he should have been heading towards the ‘hilt’.

For once, fortunate favours him. At hall’s end, there’s a small frosted ‘glass’ door. As he draws nearer, Thor can see shadows pass, occasionally, behind the frosting. There doesn’t seem to be an access or locking pad with which to open the door, but when Thor reaches it, that problem appears to be non-existent: the door slides open automatically.

No one expects corpses to need locking in. No one who’s not met Hela.

Equally clearly, no one in the lab on the far side of the door expects corpses to walk either. A dozen or so, very clearly startled, beings look over at him. One of them drops something, which hits the floor with a pathetic thud and rolls under a cabinet.

Then there’s a high pitched scream and one of the beings lunges for what can only be an alarm switch. Thor lurches forward to stop them. He doesn’t want more soldiers; more fighting. These people need help, not war.

The medic-come-scientist-come-mortuary-worker is closer. They reach the switch first.

There’s a lurching flash of light and sound and-

Thor’s in space again.

It takes him a moment to make sense of that.

He’s hanging in the void, eyes blinking weakly. Beautiful shards of shrapnel spin slowly around him; reflecting light from dim and distant stars.

Slowly he rotates. He sees the Earth, but sees her surrounded in scattered debris. He continues to rotate.

He sees the plague ship. It’s more distant than he remembers. The explosion must have flung him a great distance.

The plague ship looks like a soft, fuzzy peach hanging in the dark; her spikes appear almost ornamental. Someone has taken a huge bite out of her side.

_They- That was a self-destruct. But- Why?_

Lights shimmer in the ship’s remaining segments. Maybe the auto-destruct only partially worked? Maybe independent ship sectors were left to function? Or maybe some systems continue purposelessly while everyone aboard is dead.

*

Steve finds him.

Despite Thor’s best efforts, they manoeuvre the ship until he’s scooped into the airlock and then they start to cycle the systems. Thor has to put a hand through the electronics to prevent them from exposure to him and the plague he doubtless carries.

It takes a little while to get them to understand what’s going on. Sign language through a tiny viewport with half-numb hands is no fun. Thor preservers. It’s not so much that he’s worried for his own health. Thor’s yet to experience a day’s sickness in his life not directly attributable to poison. But mortals are a frail breed and he’d do ill by them indeed if he repaid their concern with contagion.

At length they decide to confine him in Wakanda.

*

Thor’s placed in isolation.

On the first day, Shuri takes scans and measurements and requests that Thor send her samples though a tiny, carefully controlled and irradiated, port. He does so.

In return he’s given news. That the astronauts were successfully saved and are being similarly quarantined. That the alien ship seemed to maintain power, but has left the solar system. It had not responded to hails. No one from Midgard offered them help.

That ship could have been him; that could have happened to his people.

On the second day, Shuri’s not found anything disquieting within his test results, though apparently she’s getting anomalous readings from two of the human astronauts. Stark turns up to let Thor know he’s retrieved Stormbreaker.

Apparently Stormbreaker is undergoing many and various decontamination procedures and thus is unavailable to be returned to him at this time; even supposing she’d fit through the port. But Stark does bring Thor’s new phone and pop-tarts. One item is more welcome than the other.

Thor has no one to call on the phone. He has no way to reach Landing.

Stark assures him that he’s ‘swung by’ Landing and let ‘the scary drinking woman’ know that Thor’s fine. At the moment. Probably.

On the third day, one of the two astronauts is definitely ill. The symptoms look like the start of flu. Everyone’s dreading to see how it will progress.

Thor still seems to have a clean bill of health.

On the fourth day Banner visits. There’s something darkly humorous about having probably two of the only beings on the continent who can break the Wakandan containment barriers, holding a casual conversation through one. “Stark’s busy.” Banner says, “Apparently he’s being consulted on getting a proper, functioning orbital platform into space.”

Thor suspects that Banner’s also being consulted on this. “Sounds interesting. It will be quite an achievement for Earth.” Is it terrible to wonder if they’ll place research laboratories within it, or whether they’ll mount weapons on its surface?

“It’s certainly an undertaking. Any tips?”

But Midgardians do not practice magic and, even if they did, such creations are not Thor’s forte. “I suspect that this should be a human endeavour.” Maybe it will bring the disparate fractions of Earth together.

Or maybe they will use it to destroy one another.

All realms seem to harbour the seeds of their own destruction. The Dark Elves of Svartalheim, and their obsession with war over recovery. Asgard, in casting out their daughter. Jotunheim, in casting out their son.

There’s a definite pattern.

Or maybe Thor’s just in a bleak frame of mind.

On the fifth day, he finally walks free; he’d been expecting it to take longer.

Of all the people to break Thor from his confinement, the one to do so is the one he least expects. As the door hisses open, with Shuri still looking pensive on the viewscreen, it’s Star-Lord standing there, the warrior Gamora by his side. “I can’t believe they actually bothered putting _you_ in here. I thought you guys were basically indestructible and utterly immune to illness and stuff.”

“I believe there were concerns that I might act as a carrier of some sickness or other.” Although, without Asgard’s golden apples, Thor’s beginning to wonder whether he needs to worry more closely about the health of his people. Perhaps he should start some sort of health monitoring program?

“From Voxian flu? Well, it sucks if you’re Kita’lim, like the guys on the ship up there, but as far as I’m aware, no one else has ever caught so much as a sniffle. How about you?” He asks Gamora.

Gamora just shakes her head. “It wasn’t even considered as the base for a potential biological weapon. The virus just doesn’t interact with most species.”

“Two of the astronauts-“

“Sometimes flu is just flu.”

“There were the lights.” Thor says. Because if he’s been trapped in here for five days for no good reason-

Except that the mortals hadn’t known any of this. Which means that Shuri and Coulson had good reason to hold him.

“Ah. They’re just space leaches.” Star-Lord says. “Mostly harmless, but they don’t half itch.”

Thor hadn’t found the bites itched; he’s not in the mood to torment Star-Lord with this petty strength. “So I can leave?” He clarifies instead.

“Whenever you like.” Gamora agrees.

*

He’s almost escaped the hospital complex when he sees a familiar form. Rabbit’s tinkering with something that Thor’s fairly certain he shouldn’t be touching. But he’s also fairly sure that it’s not vital and, rightly or wrongly, Thor’s not feeling as charitable toward his allies as he should.

Is this how Loki used to feel all the time?

Regardless of his intent to ignore Rabbit’s theft, the small rodent stops what he’s doing when he notices Thor approach. So there’s one less act to sit upon Thor’s conscience.

After a long, considering moment, Rabbit says, “You look like shit.”

Thor can't find it in himself to argue. “It's a difficult time.”

Rabbit’s expression is hard to read, but his offer, when he makes it, is honest enough. “You could come away with us. Not forever, you know. You're a busy guy now, and we get that. But for a little bit. A change is meant to be good for you, you know?”

“And, by change, you wouldn't happen to mean a chance to blow things up, would you?”

Rabbit’s smile is all teeth. “You know me so well.”

*

Landing feels more confining and unfinished than ever when Thor returns that night. Even by starlight, without the shrouding snow, it’s clear just how painfully small their settlement is. A tiny cluster of low wooden buildings and a scrapped structure that doesn’t even look like a ship now.

The swathes of land within Landing’s walls are utterly empty; his people clearly sleeping their pain and loneliness away.

At least there seems to be light and merriment in the Communal Hall. Trudging across the slushy snow and mud, Thor pauses to take a moment to look up at Midgard’s faint stars which have _finally_ made an appearance. He tries to find a moment’s peace. It escapes him.

Maybe ale will help.

But the hall, when he enters, isn’t just bright but brimming with people. For a moment Thor hesitates, the curtain-door barely able to sweep shut behind him. It looks like every last resident soul has tried to cram into the place, and they’re all laughing and chattering at once.

For a moment Thor’s just struck dumb, trying to understand the transformation. Then someone must spot him, because the next moment people are turning to look at him and the pitch of the conversation changes. There’s a definitely shuffling of people and – before Thor can protest – he’s being propelled forwards, through the throng.

Unn and Tue are at the centre; Unn on a makeshift cot, Eir sitting close by and attentive while Tue, stands, ale mug in hand, looking much the merrier. In Unn’s arms there’s a bundle. Thor stumbles to a stop at the same time as Unn turns to smile up at him.

She looks absolutely radiant. “My king.” Her voice sounds wrecked, like a warrior’s after too long shouting across the battlefield, but everyone stills to hear her next words. “You have another subject.” And she holds up the bundle for Thor to take.

Thor gently lifts Landing’s first newborn and looks upon the baby’s sleeping face. There are words to be said, though he only knows he says them for the cheers that they raise. So he must have said them correctly.

Later, much later, when he leaves, heart-full and dizzy with something like hope, he makes his way to the dreaded computer in his wardroom. Dropping into the chair, it takes a few attempts to bully the system into giving him the information that he wants.

For a long moment, Thor looks at the little glittering number at the bottom of the alien view-scene. Then, very slowly, he types in an extra digit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this ended on a lighter note than in came in on. Frankly I needed a little optimism!


	5. Late December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor throws a Christmas party to which Tony brings Pepper, beer, and legal representation. Also goats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so far_ out of step with the year. Posting about Yule in May…?!
> 
> This is the first chapter of the story that isn’t from Thor’s point of view. There are more coming up; maybe a third of the chapters in total. Hopefully they provide a little perspective on some of the areas Thor’s blind to.

“He’s asked for sheep.”

Tony’s far from sure what response he expected from Pepper, but it certainly isn’t for her to calmly carry on making herself a lunchtime smoothie.

As his beloved has obviously missed the significance of the declaration, it’s clear that he’ll just have to repeat it for her benefit. “Thor. It’s the first time _he’s_ been the one to get in contact since the big-bad-we-don’t-talk-about-it events, and what he does, is he asks for a Christmas present. From me.” He gestures to his chest in case Pepper hasn’t noticed that he’s central to this story. “I didn’t think that anyone apart from little kids actually asked for what they wanted.”

Although it would make life a bit easier if people did just come out with it. Maybe, for example, if Pepper would stop dropping hints and let him know if she wanted the necklace in that movie, or a holiday to the set’s location. Or maybe a threesome with the actress. After all, how’s he to know?

And, okay, so he’s already bought and secreted away the necklace and booked the vacation in preparation for the holidays – although he’s skipped arranging the threesome without significantly clearer hints; that just seemed risky – but it would be good to _know._

None of which gets to the main point.

“And what he’s asked for is sheep. _A lot_ of sheep. And goats. Mustn’t forget those.”

“Well,” Pepper says, before leaving him in suspense while she takes a sip of her drink. “I suppose you’d better find him some very nice goats then.”

*

Sheep, it turns out, are complicated. Goats even more so.

There are lots of different breeds, for starters, depending on what you want to do with them, where you want to rear them, whether you’re planning to breed them. At least Tony’s fairly sure that Thor’s not planning to take up showing the livestock. He’s not sure he can live in a world where the newspapers have images of his friend next to a beribboned show-sheep.

Thinking about what Thor might want livestock _for_ however, does start to narrow things down a little. In the Afghan village occupied by the Ten Rings, goats had been far more important than Tony was really comfortable with. They were hardy, mostly self-sufficient when it came to the finding of food, gave really awful milk, which could make hideous cheese (although Tony’s fairly certain that the awfulness of the cheese was more due to the local production methods than the goats) and, of course, they could ultimately be eaten.

Sheep also have wool. And, it transpires a short internet search later, skin that can be used to make leather. Some of the sheep species – yes, the female ones as well as the male – even have horns that can be used to make small cups or… other things. Combs. Spoons. Tony stops looking at that point and has Friday wipe his search history. It’s going to look sketchy as sin as it is.

It’s fairly clear that he’s going to need to find an expert.

*

It’s somewhat amusing that Thor is asking for Christmas presents, yet is hosting a party over the winter solstice. Still, it makes Tony’s plans easier: he _doesn’t_ have to rearrange his quiet time with Pepper and he _does_ get to send a fake-sincere apology to that gala he never likes attending. True, he could tell Thor he has plans and just send the sheep, but there are three very good reasons to go.

One, he wants to see how the sheep he sent are settling in. And the goats. Yes, the livestock were sent on ahead because no, he is not flying distances in a pressurised container with them.

Two, he’s nosy. _No one_ gets invited to New Asgard. Turning up in the quinjet to pick up Thor and go Avenging hardly counts, as they’ve never even had time to get in or out of the damn thing before. From the view-screens things look a little… primitive… but, for the sake of novelty, Tony’s prepared to rough it if needs be. It’ll be good to get a look around the place. And it’s possible that Thor might need more than sheep. And goats.

Which brings him to three: he’s worried about his friend.

“Do you think we’ve maybe brought just a little too much to drink?” Pepper asks from where she’s sitting next to him in the co-pilot’s chair. She’s in the co-pilot’s chair because she’s currently piloting, but she’s not in the pilot’s chair, because Tony’s in that one. She’s piloting because Tony’s the first to admit that he’s got the attention span of a hyperactive child at times and he got bored somewhere above Nova Scotia. And while there’s an autopilot, trusting to it in a realm where stray electrical fields should be expected seems, well, imprudent.

Tony’s still in the pilot’s chair, because there’s no room in the rest of the jet.

“Pepper, trust me, these guys _drink_.”

“This is a lot of alcohol.”

“Look, I know you don’t believe me, but it really was Thor and Steve that cleared out the cellar that time.”

Pepper just har-humms, keeping her eyes fixed on the various dials as though they were actually reporting anything interesting when still forty minutes out from their destination. Tony’s problem is, even if he gets Thor and Steve to come clean, she’ll just think he put them up to it.

God alone knows what she thinks _actually_ happened to all the alcohol.

*

Landing is an interesting experience.

Thor had said that he’d light the place up and Tony had reasonably assumed that would mean radar-reflectors or, at least, high intensity lamps. He’d been fairly certain that even Thor wouldn’t mean thunderbolts and lightening.

As the jet drops below the snow clouds and the flakes start to splatter sadly against the windows, the thermal sensors go absolutely crazy. Because, as it is, what Thor _apparently_ seems to have meant is that half the horizon will be on fire.

“That’s a lot of bonfires,” Pepper says neutrally. “Do you think we should mention climate change to him?”

Tony nods slowly. “Yeah. I’ll do that tomorrow.”

Still, at least it makes it easy to find the landing strip.

From the bumps as they come down, Tony’s pretty certain that no real attempt at smoothing the land under the snow has been made. He’s suddenly glad that they’ll be several tonnes lighter when they come to take off again.

They are not the first to arrive; problems parking hadn’t crossed Tony’s mind when falling into his habit of making a dramatic, slightly late entrance. The quinjet is further ahead. Presumably Steve, Natasha and co arrived earlier. But there are still running lights on the Wakandan craft next to it. Either T’Challa also likes making an entrance, or they got lost en route. The later option seems rather unlikely, but then, so does the former.

Tony wriggles his way between the barrels and boxes of booze, heading towards the ramp. Thor’s going to have to help him with all the boxes; it took Happy two days and various delivery people to get the plane loaded. As a good will gesture, he plucks a random bottle of something bubbly from a crate as he goes by.

Behind him, he hears Pepper curse as she tries to scramble-slither over something. He’d offer to help but Pepper’s always been more than up to keeping pace with him when she wants to.

Instead he hits the ramp-lower switch. The hydraulics hiss and the ramp starts to open.

Tony hits the ramp-raise button and turns to the love of his life. “You did remember to pack the winter coats didn’t you?”

Pepper, hands still braced to boost herself up and over another crate, gives him a very dark look. “You said we wouldn’t need them.”

Tony’s fairly certain he’ll have said no such thing. “ _Within_ the buildings I’m sure we won’t need them. _Getting_ to the buildings might be a different matter.”

Pepper looks as though she’s going to murder him. Instead she puts one knee up, onto the crate, which, it must be said, caused her lovely shimmery dress to rise enticingly, and finishes mounting the box.

Her dismount could use a little more practice, although Tony decided that – as the person she will doubtless blame for having filled the craft with crates – he will not mention hearing her dress snag.

There’s not very much room, standing together in the corner, unless Tony decides to turn the wall into more floor by lowering the ramp again. He’s not about to do that. Not without coats.

Which does mean that he has a very irked Pepper standing wonderfully close to him. “You _said_ that I shouldn’t bother bringing winterwear.”

“What can I say?” Tony spreads his arms, and offers his most winning of smiles. “Occasionally I’m wrong. Normally you manage to save the day non-the-less.”

Pepper shoves him sharply in the stomach. It’s better than being elbowed in the stomach. “And I would do just that, expect that you _seem_ to have filled this plane from side-to-side.”

“Ah. Which locker?” Is this what’s held up the Wakandan party?

“At the front.” Pepper points towards the cockpit, where everything is most heavily stacked. “The lower lockers.”

Tony nods. “You know what? Why don’t you just stay here for a few minutes? I’m going to nip over and see if T’Challa’s got a spare jumper or something.”

Pepper sighs, gives the door a doubtful look, and says, “I may as well come with you.”

So it is that Tony opens the plane up again. It’s every bit as cold as that first draft had indicated. Worse yet, the ground is definitely thick with snow. Shooting a quick look at Pepper’s glamorous heels, Tony acknowledges that he knows _exactly_ how this is going to play out.

“Here,” He hands her his suit jacket and, when she pulls it shivering, over her bare arms, passes her the bottle. “Now, if you just…”

Scooping her up into his arms, he finds that the unexpected advantage to keeping Pepper’s feet out of the snow is that at least now a tiny portion of his body retains some heat.

“Friday, close up the jet please. And let T’Challa know we’re heading over.”

*

The Wakandan craft is, thankfully, very warm. Also surprisingly well stocked with coats, boots, scarves, hats, snoods and various other cold-weather-wear that Tony’s never come across.

“Thank you so much for this,” Pepper says, switching out her lovely heels for a pair of fur-lined boots that Shuri’s handing her. Shuri herself looks like a small, round ball of fluff.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s even colder than we were expecting.”

“I’m surprised that you of all people didn’t come equipped.” T’Challa says to Tony. “Isn’t there a suit for this?”

Tony laughs. “You tell me. You look like a more like the furball that cat spat up than the cat.”

“A lovely image,” General Okoye says dryly. She flexing her hands uncertainly. They’re engulfed in a large pair of mittens. As Tony looks on, she manages to pick up her spear then gives it an experimental twirl. It clatters from her grip.

Tony gives the fallen spear a doubtful look. “Are you sure you’re allowed to bring that along? This is meant to be a peaceful yule festivity and all that.”

Apparently this is not the correct thing to say. She snarls at him, adding for good measure, “I guard my king at all times.”

“Right. Understood.” Pulling a coat at random from the pile, Tony decides he’s done with dressing up and saunters over to T’Challa. “So what’d he ask for from you?” Okay, so maybe it’s not entirely in the spirit of things to ask, but then again, if Thor’s being direct, why can’t he?

T’Challa nods slowly. Ah. Good. So Tony’s not the only one getting hit up for gifts. “Medical equipment. A scanner. Some blood filtration devices. Various regenerative tools. He was very specific.” It doesn’t sound like T’Challa knows whether to be impressed or alarmed.

Personally Tony’s moving straight to offended. _He’s_ the technology warlord. “You’re kidding, right? He asked you for tech and me for goats? I know nothing about goats. Your people are the ones with all the livestock.”

T’Challa’s grin is bright. “All of the livestock and all of the medical facilities. And I know nothing of the creatures that survive distant, snowy lands.”

Which still misses the point that neither does Tony.

*

In the end, the warm-weather-dress-up party is ended by the arrival of Thor, announced by the loud thumping on the hull. Tony’s suddenly glad that he chose to stop by the Wakandan vessel, if only to have avoided having Thor ‘knock’ on his own craft.

Still, when Thor bounds on board, Tony can’t help relaxing a little in the face of his obvious good-humour. “Friends! Welcome! Heimdall said that he’d seen you.”

“You look better than you did the last time I saw you,” Shuri says as she hugs the thunder god.

Thor pats gently at her head. “I find a lack of confinement agrees with me.” Which doesn’t seem like it can be the true answer to Tony, but does well enough for now.

Thor pulls T’Challa into a quick hug and then Tony’s being squeezed enthusiastically. Pepper always says Thor hugs nicely, but, for himself, Tony always worries about the state of his ribs afterwards. It’s possible that his first encounter with Thor, battling while in his suit, has given him a somewhat incorrect impression of his durability.

“Were your travels easy?” Thor asks, apparently genuinely concerned. And, when both Pepper and Shuri reassure him that, yes, it is amazingly easy to find a giant line of fire, he says, “Would you like a tour of Landing?”

Tony’s never going to say no to that.

Five minutes of slogging through snow later and he’s beginning to reconsider. Of course, that’s just when they reach the walls of New Asgard.

Tony’s got no idea what the original Asgard looked like. Dr Foster and Bruce both described it as a shining citadel hanging in space. It’s an image the engineer in Tony struggles to rationalise and, as he’d basically thought of Thor as a Viking from outer space since the first time they met, the huge wooden stockade feels strangely right to him.

“Very sturdy.” He tells Thor, and he means it as a genuine compliment, yet he can’t deny that a look of uncertainty crosses his friend’s face, as he replies, “My thanks.”

It _is_ very sturdy. Intellectually Tony knows that trees grow both tall and wide. He’s been flung into a fair few of them. But looking at the structure rising from the snow drifts to tower, maybe twelve meters high and almost lost in the blur of falling snow, Tony wonders if Thor realises how impressive the structure actually _is_.

True, Tony has more armaments in his possession than he can count that could raise the wall, but, after several battles where entire city blocks have been obliterated, he’s started to see walls as less about being unstoppable barricades and more about acting as early warning devices.

It also makes seeing the settlement within impossible, although Tony does think he spots the odd form moving along the top of the barricade.

So, Thor has set patrols. And, despite their being guests, they’ve all been directed to land away from the gatehouse.

Drawing nearer, Tony can see sap has crystallised around sites where branches were hacked away, but there’s neither rope holding the structure together nor nails. Running one hand uncertainly over the join between two such logs, he can’t so much as force his fingers between them nor see lights of the camp beyond. “How’d you set these?”

Thor shrugs, “The women wove the wood together.”

_Wove the wood…?_ “Of course. Silly me. By that, do you mean magic?”

Thor looks at him as though he’s asked if snow is cold and blood is red. “Of course.”

“Okay. Perfect. Good.” Because the answer, _we built this place with magic_ , just upsets parts of his mind. At least the structure doesn’t look like it’s been grown straight from the ground, because that’s just a little too close to fairy tales for a grown man.

The gatehouse, when they reach it, is actually more of a gap in the stockade. There’s a sturdy log wall as backstop set about ten meters behind that gap. In the space between, two youths are playing at being solders and holding bows and arrows while a young woman in armour appears to have started the party early. Clint could not have been very impressed by the bows.

As they approach, the drunk woman breaks away from the youths and heads out to meet their party. “These them?” Her look isn’t entirely friendly. Rather, it makes Tony feel like she’s trying to fit a price tag to them, both individually and collectively.

Thor either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “These are them.” He booms, agreeably, clasping her shoulder as he strides past.

The woman nods, trailing their small group of five into the area. “Good. We’ll close the gate, then.”

Tony turns to give the inside of the stockade a good look. It’s much the same as the outside, save for a walkway barely a trunk-width deep that runs about a meter and a half from the wall’s top. Tony’s no idea how the patrols – of which he can see one close by and assumes more to be further along in the snow – reach the walkway. For that matter, he has no idea how the wall is braced. It simply seems to disappear into the snow. And that’s crazy. For a freestanding, unsupported structure to act as a wall capable of resisting attack, it would have to be buried deeply. Very, very deeply.

As well as an absence of stairs and bracing, there is no gate. Tony can definitely see no gate. Is this more magic? He’s suddenly really interested in seeing the gate close. But, also, “I left some wine and beer on the jet. Can someone collect it?”

Thor gives the bottle in his hand a quick look as if to say _‘Oh, you brought more. Good.’_ then nods at the youths. “Aegir and Buri can collect it. Access to the jet is…?”

“It’s not locked.” And then, because several years of hanging around non-humans beings has taught him that certain things need specifying, he looks at the two who’ll be heading out. “It’s the black one. There’s a big red switch near the back. Pressing the red switch _gently_ will open the door for you.”

“You didn’t lock it?” Shuri looks startled.

Tony’s startled that she’s startled. “Who’s going to break in around here?”

“I’ll oversee the-” The armoured woman starts, but Thor cuts her off: “I don’t think that’s needed.”

She looks almost forlorn as the two youths head out into the snow. Maybe she’s worried about the kids. Asgardians age slowly, right? Maybe they’re her children?

Personally Tony’s a little forlorn himself. It appears that he’s not going to get to see magical gates appear.

Within New Asgard, what Tony actually sees is a whole lot more snow.

The stockade appears to mark out an area reaching further than Tony can easily see in the snow and darkness. Yet, from the few lights he makes out, there aren’t actually that many structures behind the wall. He’d been expecting tents at least. Maybe lean-tos and huts. Tony’s visited refugee camps before. Normally there are a lot more people.

He’d say something about that, except that Thor seems to be in a good mood, and Tony really, really doesn’t want to disturb that. Instead he gives Pepper’s hand a gentle squeeze and asks the far more innocuous question: “Are Steve and the others here yet?”

“Of course.” Thor nods. “You must have seen the quinjet? They arrived over an hour ago and are in the Communal Hall.”

Communal Hall. Okay. That sounds promising. Tony’s pretty certain that the refugee supplies sent to New Asgard didn’t have building materials for a hall, but then they also didn’t include a fortified wall.

As they walk, a dim light starts to appear ahead of them. “Is that the Communal Hall?” Pepper asks. She’s begun to shiver slightly, despite the coat and boots.

“No.” Thor says calmly. “This is our Assembly Chamber.” Which sounds very grand. “It’s our newest project and isn’t entirely completed.”

‘Isn’t entirely completed’ is a code phrase that Tony’s heard from many construction project managers over the years. What is means is that everything is behind schedule, over budget, and that he’s about to see lots of scaffolding and precious little else. It’s a plea for leniency.

It’s not the correct introduction for a wooden building he can’t see the top of, and that stretches into the near-Arctic afternoon darkness in both directions.

The building is structured much as the stockade is, with lots of vertical trunks reaching higher than Tony likes to consider. He _thinks_ the building’s footprint is cylindrical, though it’s hard to tell in the dark. The entrance yawns open, a doorway as vast and tall as a titan and, despite himself, Tony shivers.

“How long has it taken you to build this?” Shuri sounds interested.

“This is about three weeks’ work,” Thor says, sounding both uncertain and proud at the same time. “Most of the time is in the detail,” he adds, running his hands over the pillars bracketing the doorway as they enter the Chamber. They are rich with carvings of fish and deer and birds.

Inside, it becomes apparent that the building is, indeed, unfinished. Tony had been hoping that the structure might present some warmth for Pepper, but it appears that the roof is missing. A large fire burns, fed by some source Tony can’t make out, in a bowl in the centre of the room. It offers enough light to see that the Assembly Chamber is maybe fifty meters in diameter, has a door on the far side leading into another room, and that snow drifts have accumulated on what sounds like a wooden floor.

Unlike New Asgard’s walls, the trunks that make this building appear to have been halved, and the bared wood within worked smooth and polished. The golden heartwood of the trees catches the fire’s light, throwing back an appearance of golden warmth, which is sadly lacking in any actual impact on the temperature.

He hears Pepper’s teeth start to chatter and suspects that his own aren’t far behind.

Thor must notice, because he shoots Pepper a worried look. “The private chambers are warmer,” he says, and they quickly cross the room to the other doorway.

“Oh. They’re finished the roof in here.” Shuri says.

It’s a very nice roof. Tony might even say that if he wasn’t freezing. Huge beams hold what looks, from the inside at least, to be a shingled surface over five meters above their heads. And these beams are not only finished to smoothness but are carved and painted in rich reds and greens and blues. And Thor said this had taken three weeks…?

He doesn’t get a chance to ask Thor about this, because the Asgardian is giving Shuri a strange look. “The Audience Chamber _is_ finished. Mostly. In the summer, when we have established a quarry, we will rebuild it in stone and use the timbers for a different structure. It is not meant to have a roof.”

“No roof?”

“Of course not.” Thor seems puzzled by the very idea. “I summon thunder and lightning. A roof would just be destroyed.”

“I do not want to know what type of audiences you hold, if they involved summoning storms,” Tony expects agreement.

Instead T’Challa speaks in support of Thor, “It would be very impressive.” The Wakandan king looks around the smaller room. “And this is a private meeting area? For your Council?”

“Just so.” Thor confirms. “With a personal study,” he points to one closed door, “and bed chamber,” he gestures to the opposing door.”

Tony tries to imagine _sleeping_ next to a meeting room in his office block. It’s clearly a terrible idea.

T’Challa looks impressed. “This is very convenient. And your people can always find you.”

Clearly Tony has no idea how kings think.

Thor smiles, it’s a strange smile to see on his face; both sad and happy together. “We are a small people now. I do not think anyone struggles to find me. Still, this gathering has given me cause to move from the New Statesman and into these rooms.” He nods, decisive. “It’s good to move forwards.” Tony wonders if Thor’s trying to convince them or himself.

“Well, so long as you have some heating in there,” Pepper sounds worried.

And that, at least, makes Thor laugh genuinely. “My dear Lady Pepper, trust me, neither Hege nor Eir nor Aslung would permit it be otherwise.”

Now the strangeness lies in being reminded that Thor has other people who will watch over him. Still, it eases some shadow of worry Tony hadn’t realised he was feeling until now. He knows how hard this is for Thor, how worried he must be for his people. But it’s good to know that they, too, are looking out for him. That he’s letting them do so. At least somewhat.

“So do we get to see the New Statesman?” Shuri asks, all innocent excitement. “I’ve never seen an alien craft that’s not built for war.”

Thor smiles gently at her. “Well, this ship was definitely _not_ built for war. However, we’ve scavenged rather a lot from her. I’m not sure that she’s now so impressive as you expect.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s still fantastic.”

“Good. For you will be staying on-board tonight.”

“Wow!” Shuri looks delighted; Tony feels somewhat less so. “Do you know what alien race made her?”

“We only know who refitted her,” Thor says leading them, unfortunately, back out into the snow. If Tony had thought the building arctic, then he’d forgotten about the added wind chill.

They’re following a wooden, roofed arcade now. Smooth stones have been pressed into the earth, so that for once they’re on a definite path. But there are no walls to the walkway, and frost has crusted over the stones. The corridor definitely does not count as being out of the elements.

It’s also not terribly well lit. Tony’s beginning to think that one of his Ironman suits might have been a better choice of partywear. He’s certainly missing the built in scanners and lights.

“Most of Asgard’s survivors are still living aboard the New Statesman,” Thor explains as they walk along. “We had time to get settled in before…” He trails off.

Even Tony’s not brash enough to ask about the appearance of Thanos. Instead he says, “So she’s a pretty roomy ship then?”

Thor wears that expression he chooses when he’s trying to think of how best not to lie. “It’s been good to expand outside. Moving the kitchens and the baths, in particular, has been helpful.”

Which Tony reads as ‘everyone was starting to get a serious case of cabin fever’. “So how are people doing at building homes?”

Thor looks at Tony like he’s never seen him before. “We’re not ready for _that_ yet. We have to finish the infirmary and maybe the guest hall. Then there will be the boats, the training block and the workshops. At that point we might move on to external dormitories, although we could build a library first. There aren’t many books though, so maybe not. And _then_ maybe-“

Tony stops him. “You mean no one, no one at all, has gone off to build a hut somewhere?”

“Of course not.” Thor looks puzzled. “That would be an entirely inefficient way of building a city.”

“Dear god,” Tony mutters, because no wonder they’ve been walking about over so much empty ground if Thor’s planned out a whole city!

Tony thinks about trying to bribe all of his people back to work after the Grand Return. He’s paying everyone damn near double and productivity’s still though the floor. No one on all the rest of Earth wants to do anything, apart from their own thing. And Thor’s got seven thousand people working, in perfect order, on one project at a time. “This ship must have some damn fine quarters.”

Thor shrugs. “They suffice.”

*

‘They suffice’ is putting it generously. Mostly.

The room Thor first shows them to – evidently his room; the captain’s room – has gravity that can be altered to preference; a music system that almost has Tony convinced there’s a concert going on just behind him; and a really very nice bed. Needless to say, Thor says that T’Challa’s staying in there. It’s no wonder monarchies used to hold such sway if they insist on favouring one another like that!

Tony’s not sure whose room he and Pepper are given, but it’s about half the size and doesn’t come with the option of changing gravity. The view-screen does involve some rather scantily clad dancers of indeterminate species and gender, although Thor, looking flustered, slaps at the controls to change it to a lovely outside view of snow, dark and, for variety, snow in the dark.

That’s okay. Tony’s pretty certain he can remember the buttons to switch between styles.

“This is very nice, thank you,” Pepper is telling Thor, while pretending not to have noticed the dancers fiasco.

It’s not very nice. It’s small and cramped, but it is, marginally, better than walking back to sleep in the jet. If only because staying on the ship means that he doesn’t have to spend more time in the snow tonight.

“I’ll leave you to settle in while I show Shuri and the General to their quarters.”

“Of course,” Pepper says, at the same time Tony asks, “Mind if I tag along?”

“But of course.”

Pepper gives him a dirty look, because presumably she wanted some private time to romance on the charming alien ship. Alas for that idea, Tony wants to do a little more scouting of the alien ship. From the outside, with all of the extra cut-out doorways and some of the lean-tos that he’s been expecting to see all over the refugee camp, Tony could get what Thor meant about the scavenging work they’d been doing. From the inside though, she still looks rather like an alien vessel.

Tony would like to get a good look at her before that’s dismantled past recognition.

He gives Pepper a little smile, asking without words if she wants to tag along, but she just scowls at him.

Oh well, hopefully she’ll forgive him later.

Shuri’s room, Tony is delighted to see, is no better than his. Smaller even. But that’s only fair, as she’s smaller than him. Clearly ‘princess’ does not out rank ‘billionaire’.

It’s an hypothesis somewhat ruined when it transpires the general’s quarters are of a similar size. Clearly cabins are divided into two categories: the captain’s and everyone else’s.

“What’s behind this door?” Tony says, reaching for the access pad to the room abutting Thor-come-T’Challa’s.

“No!”

His hand never makes it. Blinking, Tony realises that Thor’s grabbed his wrist. There’s a strange, empty look in the Asgardian’s eyes.

After an uncomfortably long moment, something in Thor seems to relent. “It was Loki’s room,” he says. Which is ridiculous, because Loki’s been dead for years.

Right?

Why does Tony get the feeling that fate is laughing at him?

“Is everything okay here?” It’s the drunk, armoured woman again. Except that now she looks decidedly more awake and there’s what certainly looks like a laser gun in her hand. In between being delighted at the science-fiction weapons, Tony’s suddenly aware, in a way that he isn’t often, that he’s a fairly frail moral, on his own, with two somewhat… unhappy-looking superhumans.

He still shouldn’t have packed the nano-suit. There’s no real threat here. He’s with Thor, his friend, for crying out loud. But he’d be lying if he says his thoughts didn’t skitter in that direction before remembering the bit about Thor being Thor.

Thor, who is noble and honourable and who never presses his advantages after the battle is over, has already released Tony’s wrist and is saying, “Yes. Of course. Everything is well here.”

He doesn’t _sound_ like he means it, but the woman nods, apparently content to take her king’s words at face value, and holsters her weapon. “That’s awesome. Because it would be a shame to kill someone who knows how to kick-start a party as well as this one.” She jerks her thumb at Tony, as though indicating an exhibit, then gives him a surprisingly cheerful grin. “We got everything unloaded.”

“I hope you left the jet fuel.” Thor says. “Stark will need it to return home, and it’s not really drinkable.”

His words are jovial enough, but the tone is flat. He’d been sounding so much better today than he had the last time they’d met, and then Tony’s gone and used his damn words and- “Hey. Thor, buddy. Are you-“

Thor bats away Tony’s hand before it can come to rest, companionably, on his shoulder. He backs down the ship’s corridor. “I just- I- I just need some time. Thirty minutes, okay?”

Tony feels like an absolute dick. As familiar as the sensation is, it’s never one he relishes. The worst thing is, he’s not even sure what he did wrong. “What the hell happened there?” He asks the drunk woman, because, really, what’s the worst she’s going to do?

The woman leans back against the wall casually and takes a long drag from something Tony sincerely hopes isn’t alcoholic considering the rate at which it goes down. “Look, we all know that Lackey was a bit of a prick.” Another drag from the bottle. “Well, okay, a lot of a prick. But he was Thor’s brother, and Thor loved him. Plus, he kind of saved everyone living in this village. So, you know, it’s probably better to simply not touch on the whole Loki topic. Just find something else to say.”

Tony hasn’t heard anything about Loki saving people, but he supposes that a demi-god who’s lived for nearly a thousand years has to have done some good along the way, even if only by mistake. “Point taken. I’ll let the others know.” He pauses, then shrugs. “I’ll also let them know I got us grounded.” Seeing as he was the one to upset their host, it only seems fair.

She laughs. “I wouldn’t bother. It’s Thor. Since when has he noticed any time interval between a minute and a year? Trust me, by the time you’re ready for me to take you over to the Communal Hall, it will be fine. Mostly.”

Communal Hall. Which will be outside in the snow. With more walking in the cold. Great.

“Tell me. Does this Hall at least have a roof?”

*

The Communal Hall does, indeed, have a roof. It also has a fire, a large amount of food, all of the booze that Tony’s brought along and then some, as well as several familiar faces.

The structure itself is… something.

Tony looks around, trying to take in everything at once, but mostly what he notes is that it’s almost exactly nothing like the Assembly Chamber. Where that had been wood polished to a golden glow, here thick dark timbers have been charred black, presumably deliberately, for weird and wild forms have then been carved into the pale wood below; the figures seem to dance and shimmer across the walls. And while the Assembly chamber opened up to the cold and cloudy skies, here there’s a solid roof constructed of something far too dark to make out, and currently garlanded in seasonal greenery.

Tony’s been to a great number of Happy Holiday events in the past and has seen more than his fair share of spectacles – caused a fair few of them too – but he’ll give Asgard the crown for the shear bulk quantity of greenery hanging over their heads.

It smells pleasantly. Spruce or pine or… something green.

But the biggest difference is undoubtedly the fierce, unrelenting noise and _warmth_. It feels… friendly.

It’s also ram-packed with people.

Long, low tables of roughhewn wood run the length of the room, with one, slightly higher, placed crosswise to them on the hall’s far side, across from the main ‘door’. Off to the left of what is actually a rug-covered main entrance, are fires and what looks to be a kitchen. A very basic kitchen. Yeah, Tony doesn’t think that this celebration will involve gourmet titbits to nibble on.

Tony can’t imagine Thor eating gourmet titbits to begin with; he’s ravenous enough with pizza.

“No mistletoe,” he says, nudging Pepper.

Just to continue Tony’s current winning streak of ‘Unexpected Words That Traumatise’, Thor, entering the room behind them, gives him a horrified look. “Definitely not.”

“I wasn’t talking about kissing you.”

The drunk lady just laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. You could be a cute couple.” Then, giving Thor a quick slap across the shoulder, “Well, is it time to feast yet or am I going to have to sober up at some point today?”

The shove that Thor gives her in retaliation isn’t entirely gentle, though she doesn’t seem all that bothered. “Hush, Valkyrie. Help seat our friends.”

“ _Our friends?_ ” Tony emphasises to Pepper as they are guided – as, of course, is only proper for someone as awesome as him – to the high table. “Do you think they’re…” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t be disgusting.” Valkyrie beats Pepper to the punch line, literally. Tony suspects he’s going to have a perfect fist-sized bruise over his ribs by tomorrow. “Now sit down,” she all but pushes him on to the bench, “start eating,” a slab of meat is dolloped onto the empty plate he’s been seated in front of, “and stop causing trouble. You’re worse than he-who-must-not-be-named.”

“I’m worse than Voldemort?” Tony jokes. “Because that just seems an excessively cruel comparison.” Not that being compared to Loki is much kinder.

Valkyrie – and there’s a name gifted by parents not afraid to weigh in with their expectations – just looks confused. “No. I meant you-know-who. I don’t know any Voldemort.” To his dismay, she claims the space on the bench opposite him and, with very little attempt at manners, takes a whole loaf of bread from the platter before them, dunking it into a very large serving of soup. Everyone else is eating too; clearly there’s not going to be any standing on ceremony here.

Uncertainly, Tony looks at the large slab of meat on his plate, glances at Pepper, who’s looking around somewhat similarly bemused, and cuts his ‘portion’ in half, to drop the rest of it on her plate. “Pass the soup ladle, will you?”

“Is Voldemort one of your comrades?” Valkyrie asks, while Pepper ladles out soup for the two of them.

Further down the table, Tony sees Clint start to choke and laugh.

“You’ve not been to these parts recently, have you?” Tony checks, while glancing around surreptitiously for a breadknife.

“Never.” Valkyrie confirms. “I left Asgard over two thousand years ago, and I believe that only battle ever fought on Midgard fell nearly a thousand years after that.”

Tony reflects on two world wars, Loki’s alien incursion, Thanos, and a million other armed conflicts not counting as ‘battles fought on Midgard’. He wonders if this is what people of colour mean when they talk about White Privilege on Columbus Day and the celebration of ‘finding’ America.

Then his mind catches up with the maths.

“How old _are_ you?” Because she sure as anything doesn’t _look_ older than Thor.

“Three thousand and three or four hundred years.” She tilts her head and appears to be running some quick calculations. Tony would have sympathy for that – he’s been known to forget if he’s forty eight or forty nine these days – but his mind is reeling from the fact that this woman is nearly three times older than Thor. “Yeah, three thousand, four hundred and twelve last week.” She nods decisively. “Are you planning to send me a birthday gift?”

“Not really.” Tony says. “I kind of imagine people have bought it all for you already.”

She smiles, apparently at peace with this. “And you did bring all of this lovely alcohol.” It’s then that Tony realizes she’s got a bottle of Champaign all to herself and is sipping it straight from the bottle.

“I don’t suppose that saying that’s nearly twenty years old will mean much to you?” He asks.

She grins. “Well, I can see that you’d struggle to get me a drink made in the year of my birth.”

“Excuse me,” Pepper cuts in, saving Tony from what could be a very awkward conversation with a woman about her age. “What are these?” She’s gesturing at something on her plate that looks rather like wood to Tony.

He supposes that he should probably get on with eating, although first it would be good to get something to wash it down with.

“They’re roots. They’re good for you.” Valkyrie must notice Tony’s vague search, because she reaches behind her and a case of one of the beers Tony had brought along is placed in front of him. “Here you go.”

“Lovely.” He glances at Pepper. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any wine down there? And a glass?”

Unsurprisingly, the answers are, respectively, yes and no. “It’s only a small bottle,” Valkyrie tells Pepper, apparently worried that she might be considered stingy in handing out the alcohol that isn’t actually hers. “But there are more for when you’ve finished that one.”

Beer in hand, Tony feels rather more willing to brave the soup. He’s still working his way up to the meat, which, when he looks uneasily around, it appears that he’s going to have to eat owing to the fact that it’s something most of the people here don’t seem to have any of. He’s been to enough of these types of shin-digs before. If something’s scarce, presumably, he should be honoured to have received it.

The soup is… actually, it’s really not bad.

Valkyrie’s laugh lets him know that he’s said that out loud. Natasha shoots him a variant of the look that Pepper’s currently sporting. Namely that they’re both embarrassed for him. “Hey, it’s a complement.”

“Tell Goodwife Hege then. But I strongly recommend that you sound less surprised.”

Tony would ask if the presence of a ‘goodwife’ means that there’s also a ‘badwife’. But even more than suspecting that he’s being blunt enough as it is, he’s not sure what he’ll do if Valkyrie tells him that there is, indeed, a badwife.

“It’s certainly better than the ship’s replicators. The Grandmaster had a _terrible_ idea of what proper food should taste like.” Which means that Tony knows exactly what he’s going to be checking out later on that night.

First, he’d better try the meat. It’s less tough than he expects and, like the soup, also surprisingly strongly flavoured. He’s not sure if he’s meant to be eating it with anything in particular, but a glance around the gathering for inspiration doesn’t help much. Valkyrie’s table manners seem to tend towards lots of tearing at things with her hands and biting sharply with her teeth, without making too much use of cutlery forget condiments. It does make him wonder what Thor’s table manners used to be like pre-Jane. But that seems like a topic on a similar level to the goodwife/badwife discussion and also risks bringing up Loki.

Instead he says, “How are the sheep settling in? Also the goats.”

“They’re in a pen away from the sea winds. We’ve built a barn for them to shelter in.”

A barn sounds nice. Very wholesome and, having seen the other Asgardian structures constructed so far, doubtless somewhat over-engineered. “Good. Good.” He vaguely feels like he should say something else. After all, he picked them all out, sort of, with the help of a consultant. So he should be interested. “I named them. Did you get the little name tags?”

Valkyrie looks at him, her teeth still buried in the impromptu meat sandwich she’s made. It’s hard to tell what, exactly, she’s thinking, but he’s fairly certain it’s not entirely complementary. She swallows, then says, “Yes, we got the tags. You’re eating Dotty.”

Pepper makes a muffled noise. Tony knows that she’s a sensitive soul at times, so it’s possible she’s trying not to gag. It’s just that it sounds rather like she’s muffling a giggle.

*

After finding out that he’s eating Dotty – a lovely young goat, excellent stock for highland winters and rugged living – Tony decides that maybe he should engage in a little less talking and a little more drinking.

He also finishes off his portion of Dotty. Waste not, want not and so on.

He does not, however, attempt to keep pace in drinking with Valkyrie. Even five minutes in her company lets him know that that would be a bad idea.

It’s barely four o’clock in the afternoon by the time that everyone seems ready to surrender the battle with the food. There’s not that much left over at that point, and Tony’s not drunk enough to fail to notice that the kitchens have been busy all along. Nothing has been prepared in excess, although none of the dishes have been allowed to remain empty either. There’s definitely a fine line between generosity and limited resources here.

Suddenly the goats and sheep feel like an achingly hollow gesture against the situation his friend’s found himself in.

Not that Tony would think it to look at Thor now. The man’s no longer at the high table; hasn’t been for most of the meal. Instead he’s been moving back and forth from one location to another, always bright and smiling, churning out good-humour with a vigour that make Tony exhausted just watching from afar.

“So.” Valkyrie interrupts his thoughts. “What do you want to do now?”

She’s still drinking, although this time it’s a dark beer from a cask Tony doesn’t remember bringing. It’s rather terrifying how much she’s got through.

“I’m currently considering listing my detox plans for the New Year,” Tony tells her earnestly. “Want a buddy?”

“Buddy’s are awesome,” she nods as she speaks. “And Thor said you’re some sort of superwarrior. So a sparring partner would be great. But detoxing is right out; if that’s what you were hinting at.”

No one can say he didn’t try. “I’m currently embarrassingly lacking in sparring suits-“ and what has Thor been saying that this is something she’d think to ask him? “-but Steve over there is really awesome at these things.”

“Really?” Tony has heard, many times over the years, about just how alarming he can be when drunk and focussed; or sleep-deprived and focused; or focussed and focused. Up until now, he’d not really known what people meant when they said his eyes took on a frightening look. “Which one’s Steve?”

Steve can probably do with blowing off some steam anyway. All that repression can’t be good for him. “Tall, blond dude with too many muscles.” Although in the current company, that doesn’t really narrow things down too much. Thankfully, Valkyrie, staggering upright, seems to have heard the unspoken additional constraint of ‘not-Asgardian’.

“How are things going?” Thor’s come over, all bright good-humour and wide smiles. Having already seen how fragile that cheer is, Tony’s worried it won’t last. “Are you going to join in the dancing?”

The question’s more directed at Pepper, so Tony lets her field it. Personally he’s never been even remotely interested in the stylised, let-us-barely-touch-hands, old-country dancing that’s currently starting up.

Pepper does a sterling job of deflection. “I suspect I’m rather too tipsy. I thought I might just circulate for a bit.”

“Then come, for I should introduce you to everyone.”

As ‘everyone’ seems to extend to several hundred people in the hall alone and more drifting in and out, Tony’s not sure that this lofty ideal will be met. The old, the young, the very young. There’s no way to greet them all. After varied and progressively more alarming introductions to firstly a tall, statuesque man in golden armour who barely nods in his direction; then a slightly harried older woman, who spends most of her time distractedly looking over Tony’s shoulder; and, finally, two somewhat giggly younger ladies who seem more interested in making eyes at Thor than exchanging pleasantries, Tony’s beginning to wish he’d stuck with Valkyrie.

He looks for an obvious distraction and thankfully finds several. One, however, stands out from the rest. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Thor, but that is a truly terrifying beast. Is it actually even a dog at all? It looks a bit White Fangy to me.”

The words are a mistake; Tony knows it as soon as he says them. How many years, and he still forgets how damn literal Thor can be? “Of course her fangs are white. How does that stop Fenrir from being a dog?”

Thor’s words give Tony momentary pause. “The dog’s name is Fenrir?” It seems worth double-checking. “Isn’t that a bit… odd?”

“For a female, yes, but the children chose it.” And Thor’s smile slips for a moment. In the void behind, Tony can see that Thor’s worried by the choice of name, but can’t quite put his finger on why ‘the children’, whoever that label covers, would do that, or how it might cause harm.

For himself, Tony just remembers the drawings by the children of the terrorist camp. The guns and the red blood on every page as they’d tried to understand the madness of their daily lives.

“Sometimes, putting a name to something; it makes the fear easier to face.” Bruce has snuck up behind them, cat quiet, and is joining them in silent contemplation of the fire-hogging beast.

As though well aware of the scrutiny and enjoying it, Fenrir rolls her head to eye them with lazy contemplation, then offers a, frankly alarming, jowl-cracking, yawning view of all of her most-certainly-white teeth.

“You know, she’s definitely not quite as terrifying as the original,” Bruce says, which means that clearly Tony hasn’t got the whole story of his Asgardian trip out of Bruce, because he can’t remember ever hearing tell of a damn apocalypse dog in it.

“She eats more though,” Thor says easily. “I’m pretty certain that’s why we’ve got her now.”

“She’s not from Asgard?” Tony had assumed that, between mention of Bilgesnipe and so on, anything of monstrous size must be native to Thor’s homeworld.

Thor looks amused. “Of course not. She’s a local.” And then, with a dark twist to his lips, “No need for a passport.”

“About that-“ Tony starts, but Thor’s already turning away. The moment to ask how the settlement request is progressing is lost.

“We’ve been hunting for meat, of course, which Fenrir very helpful with. But the area that seems to have raised the most interest in Landing is brewing. Everyone’s got a recipe and is willing to have a go.” Tony can actually see the instant that Thor remembers that he’s holding a bottle of beer that Tony brought. “It’s still very much a process just starting.” He finishes the bottle in a gulp. “This is much more lovely.”

Tony briefly tried student homebrew at collage. There’d been the edge of rebellion to it and the glamour of acting out. He’d worked his way through numerous people’s attempts before finally finding a chemical engineer who seemed to be able to make something drinkable. Then he stopped drinking even that, and switched over to wine. He’s quite happy to be missing out on the homebrew, Asgardian or otherwise. “Well, most party invitations say ‘bring your own bottle’.”

“Really?” Thor sounds surprised. “Ours never do.”

“That’s fine.” Tony claps him on the shoulder. “A minor culture clash.” One that Tony intends to keep on clashing over. Thor needs more gifts and Tony needs something he’s willing to drink.

Except that Thor seems spurred on to be generous and says, “Would you like to try some?”

“No.” Tony smiles and backs up shaking his head. “I couldn’t possibly impose on-“

Steve, with impeccable timing, wonders over to join their group. “Try some what?”

He’s casting somewhat alarmed glances behind him, but so far Valkyrie seems not to be following, which may be good considering that the topic is: “Beer.” Thor says it easily and throws an arm around Steve’s shoulders. Clearly whatever stresses have briefly made him more than usually resistant to touching have passed.

“Beer? I’ve had some already.” But Steve sounds intrigued. “Has Stark been holding some back?”

Like Tony _ever_ holds things back from his buddies! Who buys them headquarters? Who makes them weapons? Who picks up the takeout tabs?

But admitting to Steve that his words have the ability to sting is not going to happen today. “It’s not my fault you two drink like fishes.”

“Do fishes drink?” Thor asks, which is the type of thing that very drunk fools say, thinking that it sounds philosophical. Tony’s fairly certain both Thor and Steve are still considerably more sober than him.

Well, there have to be _some_ advantages to being fully human.

At the back of the hall, there are various alcoves, clearly acting as storerooms. One of them is more full of complicated glassware than Tony feels comfortable leaving around a room frequented by small children. No one here seems all that bothered though, and if there’s one thing Tony knows about children, it’s that he really doesn’t want to be involved in parenting them.

“Ah. So it’s homebrew?” Because Steve is apparently a sucker for punishment, he actually sounds pleased by this discovery. Tony’s wondering if he can beg out of the tasting on account of already being drunk.

“It must be hard to keep it warm enough,” Bruce says, then glances around the hall, “or are there always fires in here?”

“It’s the Communal Hall,” Thor says, like this explains and justifies everything. Maybe if you’re Asgardian it does.

“There are different colours.” Steve is poking around. Really! Both Tony and Bruce have some actual capacity to understand fluid flows and biochemical reactions, but Steve’s the one who’s straight in there like he can do no harm!

“We have mild, bitter and porter.” Thor points to a series of what can only be termed buckets. “Also mead, though that’s still fermenting.”

Thor has persuaded Tony to supply mead at a party exactly once before; back in the early days when the Avengers were all getting to know one another. Since then Tony has resisted any and all attempts to be sweet-talked into buying more. Pun intended.

“This is pretty good.” Steve, sampling the first batch which looks alarmingly coca-cola coloured, makes the same comment people presented with homebrew everywhere do, and in much the same tone of surprise. Yeah, there’s no way Tony’s drinking any of it. Then Steve goes and ruins this by adding, “Can you top it up?”

“Pass some here,” Bruce says. “What harm can it do?” This, from a man with serious anger-management issues induced by excessive experimentation.

Apparently something about superhuman livers must affect the taste-buds.

Thor is trying to pass a small beaker of something to Tony. Is it ethically wrong to ‘accidentally’ drop something ‘edible’ that’s been forced upon you by a refugee?

“Gee. Thanks.” Relenting, he forces his fingers around the beaker and, because sometimes the best way is ‘quickly’, tosses the contents back.

Several desperate, hacking coughs later, and Tony’s willing to admit that he took the wrong approach with the grog. Steve’s pounding him on the back, which hardly helps with the situation, but Thor’s laughing, loud and genuine, and that, at least, does help.

“I take it that’s your moonshine?” He manages to wheeze out.

“It’s spirits,” Thor says, his own voice oddly raspy with good-humour. “You’re not meant to drink it like that.”

“You’re not meant to serve it up as strong as that,” Tony retorts. “Not without warning a guy.”

“You didn’t look like the beer much appealed to you,” But Thor seems to relent. “Do you need some water? Or some bread?”

“I’m good.” Oh, tomorrow’s hangover’s going to be epic.

Steve, of course, is now frowning around the set-up. Maybe he’s wondering about tax evasion and licencing fees or something equally drab. But what he actually says is, “Where did you get the ingredients for all of this?”

Thor shrugs. “The UN was very generous.”

If Tony had been saying that, there’d have been a definite edge of sarcasm to the statement. Outside, the snow lies one or two feet deep, yet the only permanent structures Tony has seen are the ones the Asgardians themselves have built. There are no electric lights, no generators for power, no radios. If this is generosity, then receiving less would have meant receiving _nothing_.

Thor, being Thor, appears to mean exactly what he’s said. “We received a large number of stores from them.”

Tony knows what relief rations looks like. Flour, grain, tea, sugar, salt. Fuel occasionally, although he can’t help but note that, by the hearths, only thick pine logs are stacked high. The fuel’s come from the forest; no intervention by the human authorities has occurred.

“You’ve done well with the supplies.”

Thor nods, “Everyone has been very hardworking. And, of course, we have had Goodwife Hege to organise us.”

_And who organised her?_ Tony wonders. _Who put her in charge?_

“The UN gave you beer-making supplies?” Steve still looks confused. “Normally it’s only food goods. They have, well, a bit of a moralistic resistance to encouraging alcohol.”

“There was yeast.” Thor shrugs. “What else could it be there for?”

“The yeast is to help the bread rise,” Steve is saying oh-so-earnestly.

He might as well have saved his breath. No one can do earnest better than Thor. “No. The flour is for the flat bread; the yeast is for the beer.”

“No, trust me, it really-“

“It’s not very good yeast,” Thor is continuing to say. “But then, it’s not very good flour. We’ve made it work and I believe the goodwife looking after the fermentations has developed a sound strain.”

Steve’s opening his mouth, presumably to argue. Tony frantically searches out another obvious distraction; preferably one that won’t end up with him drinking poison.

“Who’s the crazy cat lady?”

It might not be the most charitable turn of phrase, but Thor clearly knows exactly who that means. To be fair, she is, basically, wearing a cat over her shoulders like some sort of living fur-ruff. “Come over. I’ll introduce you.” And they are off, thankfully, leaving the dread experimental alcohol alone if only to go wading through more people. Which is still better than heading back outside.

“This is Erika,” Thor announces when he reaches the crazy cat lady; he does so as though introducing an empress and swings an easy arm about the woman’s shoulders with warm familiarity. “She is our neighbour. Did you know what we have neighbours? No? Well, no more did we, but they are grand things to have.”

If Erika The Neighbour thinks this is excessive praise for merely existing in the wilderness, it doesn’t show. Instead she’s smiling fondly up at Thor with the same expression Tony vaguely remembers an elderly aunt directing at him. “It’s good to see so many people in the countryside again. These days, all the young folk, they want to go to the cities. It is so sad.”

It doesn’t seem diplomatic to ask her if she’s noticed that her new neighbours are space Vikings. “It must be nice to have a little company, people to help out from time to time,” Tony says instead.

“Oh, it’s been quite the opposite,” Thor replies. “Erika here has pretty much single-handedly saved our cooking. What was it you brought to us? Garlic, ginger, aniseed, cinnamon?”

Erika blushes. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just spare winter stores.”

Tony tries to visualise exactly _how much_ spare herbs and spice the woman must have put by to make a noticeable dint in the sheer quantity of food that Aesir seem to eat, but gives it up as a bad exercise.

Erika’s clearly a crazy cat lady living in the middle of nowhere. Adding stockpiling-for-the-apocalypse to her list of attributes doesn’t seem like that much of a stretch.

“I always buy too much.” But she ducks her head, bashful of the praise in the way that she wasn’t when merely complimented for existing. “Out here; all the snow. It’s so easy to be cut off. But the excess, it will just go bad if kept for too long. And you can use it more than me.”

“And we can feed you whenever you want.”

“Now, if _that’s_ what someone had said to _me_ several months ago, I’d not have worried about your arrival.” A new voice joins their conversation. Its owner is a slim man, dressed in worn denim.

“This is our second neighbour. We have three. Olaf lives by the coast. He fishes.”

“Aye. And maybe with your people here, we’ll stop having people poaching our fish.” Olaf nods. “That would be good.”

Thor looks briefly worried and Tony can’t help but feel a stab of concern for his friend; for the fact that yet more is handed to him to resolve. But Thor only nods, decisively, before confirming, “Yes. I will sort that out.”

Tony has no doubt that he will, either. It’s just that he’s not sure having an enraged, lightening-spewing alien land on the deck of an illegal fishing vessel will lead to good exposure for the refugees. Maybe he’ll rise to the challenge of getting Coulson to send a satellite or two over the area instead. True, S.H.I.E.L.D. had promised not to, in the interests of granting the Asgardians the privacy to heal, but this is to help them, not to spy. Then Tony can find the right lawyers; buy up the right contacts… It could be a nice little bonus Christmas present, even assuming that Asgardian’s celebrate Christmas. There’s been a notable lack of Santa so far.

“So, who’s your third neighbour?” He asks mostly to hide his plotting.

“Raul,” Thor says simply. It does occasionally cross Tony’s mind to ask Thor if he’s cottoned on to the use of surnames yet, but it seems like a heavy conversation for the evening. “He’s not here tonight. He likes to walk.”

“Walk where?”

Thor shrugs. “Walk anywhere. He gave us the dog, Fenrir, as a welcome gift.”

*

Drinking, naturally, gives way to sitting about, drunk.

It’s been a long time since Tony’s felt this… fuzzy… outside of the benefits of medical supervision. Pepper’s found him at some point and they’re currently sitting on the floor, next to Thor, in a nest of rugs, watching as someone who claims to be a bard declaims something in a language Tony can’t follow.

It must be the alcohol. Tony thought the Asgardians had some sort of Allspeak to address the more obvious problems in communication.

Still, the man speaks with a nice rhythm to his voice. Occasionally he makes wild gestures with his arms and waves about what clearly has to be a ritually-carved stick. He could be talking about anything. The wind outside the door; a wild journey thorough the great unknown; battles with the evil frost giants that Tony has heard a mother threaten her children with; or even a passionate romance.

Besides him, Thor appears to be in deep conversation with Steve who is, contrary to expectations, surprisingly capable at holding his own when discussing refugee camps. Sometimes Tony forgets what he must have seen in the war.

“But you have sufficient fresh water from digging the borehole?” Steve is saying. “Doesn’t it cause problems with the latrine system?”

“We’ve got comprehensive geological scans of the area.” _From where?_ Tony wants to ask, but the dancing bard is lulling him into peace. “So we’re happy that the reed-bed system shouldn’t contaminate the groundwater. All in all, we’re settling in well.”

“And you think that it’s a scalable system for the settlement?”

Words aren’t Tony’s thing. Oh, he can spin a stirring speech and bound his way through scientific journals, but in the precise and technical usage of legal jargon? He’s out of his league.

Still, after quite so much of his life around people he pays not-inconsiderable sums of money to navigate that language, certain phrases jump out at him. It started, and he’s not proud of himself for this now, with picking out things that are clearly going to be a sexual harassment case if he lets them go on, and expanded more generally to phrases which are going to be difficult to explain away when the papers get to hear of them.

It’s grown since then.

Thor said _settle_. Steve said _settlement_.

Those are not the phrases Director Fury used last time Tony ran in to him.

Oh god, he’s going to be _that guy_. The one that crashes the party atmosphere. “I thought this area was currently designated a refugee camp.”

Steve frowns; clearly not quite catching the distinction, but from the way that Thor’s mood seems to plummet from serious-but-optimistic to decidedly-not-happy, he’s aware of the issue.

“I thought the UN had handed this land over,” Steve days, but as he does, he looks over at Thor and seems to pick up on the same tension Tony’s seen.

Tony lets the silence build; he’s certainly not sure where to begin the questions.

Thor starts to speak. There are rather a lot of words in his answer, but Tony’s sat through enough presentations where the speaker’s trying not to say ‘I have no idea what’s going on’ to realise that that is, actually, what Thor is trying not to have to say.

“Hey. Hey. Hey.” Stopping Thor from rambling feels somewhat akin to pushing an avalanche back uphill while it’s trying to bound on down. “Just a moment. Who are you talking to?” Oh no. He knows that look too. The I’ve-stopped-replying-to-the-creditor’s-letters look. “Where are the letters?” There are always letters.

“I don’t think I-“

“Thor. Trust me. Paperwork is something I’m very good at looking through. Show me.”

For a moment, Tony thinks that Thor’s going to refuse; pride can be a painful problem for some people. While Tony’s not above a little emotional manipulation along the lines of the you-have-more-than-yourself-to-think-of-here type; that might rather put them at loggerheads. Tony can’t imagine Thor being an easy person to be at loggerheads with.

Thankfully Thor’s thoughts must be running in the same direction, because, after a pause just long enough to pass as wanting-to-not-worry-them, he stands up. “Come with me.”

They end up outside again.

Tony’s almost getting used to it.

They head back in the Assembly Chambers and, beyond it, to one of the smaller rooms Thor had said were private.

The private room is large enough, but that’s the best that can be said for it. It’s dark, cold and bare. The sole items of furniture are a large desk made from what looks like a hastily modified blast shield, and a wooden stool.

There’s a lot more paper on that upcycled desk than Tony had expected from a technologically advanced race. There’s also a computer, which looks to have been pretty-much torn out of somewhere; presumably the refugee ship. And is that the smart phone he gave Thor a few weeks back? It still looks to be in one piece.

“You could do with a few more chairs,” Steve says lightly, before leaning against the table’s edge. He flicks through some of the papers and Tony has to bite down on the urge to bat his hands away. After all, if Thor’s not bothered by the snooping, then Tony’s not really got any right to be.

“We’re working on that. But at the moment, we need space more than things.” Joining Steve at the table, Thor pulls over a large brown box file.

It’s strange, but before this moment Tony hadn’t really thought about Earth as having a very distinctive aesthetic. True, he’s pretty certain he can spot the Asgardian style. And Nebula’s tech had had a different way of looking. Then there’s been the refugee ship itself, which certainly doesn’t look either human or Asgardian.

But looking at that box file, Tony has absolutely no doubt that it’s a relic of his planet.

Thor opens the box to reveal an awful lot of paper.

Then he pushes the entire box towards Tony all the while making absolutely _no_ eye contact.

For a moment Tony just looks at the page on top. _To the leader of Asgard, Thor Odinson,_ it reads before continuing, _Find enclosed details of… blah, blah, blah._

Okay, so not actually ‘blah, blah, blah’, but Tony’s seen enough cover letters to flip to the next page and see what follows. Then he flips to the one after. Puts his hand further into the document, lifts an alarming weight of paper, and glances at a random page.

It is… It is utterly ridiculous. “Please tell me you have a legal representative looking though this?” He doesn’t need Thor’s silence to know that there is no legal representative. “Aw, hell.” There must be nearly a thousand pages of human legal double-speak. Thor reads café menus at the rate of about one side in ten minutes; this must be…

“I’ll sort this.” It’s not even a question of thinking about his offer. Thor so obviously isn’t equipped to handle this. And if there’d been any among his people whom he could turn to for help, surely Thor would have done so already.

“I-“ Thor looks stricken. “I can’t _possibly_ -“

“I have lawyers.” Tony says, decisively putting the lid back on the box and picking the whole lot up. It’s a heavy pile of paper, but he’s not handing it back to Thor; the guy definitely needs something taking off his hands, although he’s apparently not ready to admit to it. “They need to earn their keep-”

“I don’t think-” Steve starts to say something utterly unhelpful because he is an idiot who hasn’t looked at the jargon on the pages.

“No, you don’t think.” Tony happily speaks over him before giving Thor his most sincere salesman smile. He’s pretty certain that Thor’s never been on the receiving end of it before and so won’t realise that it’s more hollow than Thor’s own current smile. “The lawyers need new tasks and this-” he hefts the box “-is their type of thing.” Yeah, he’s going to get one hell of a bill for this good deed, but then how much should be paid to say ‘thanks for helping save half the known universe’?

Besides, after an afternoon trailing around following others, it makes it his time to say, “Come with me.”

Admittedly the instant that he’s out and in the snow, he needs Thor to direct them to the jet, but when they get there, he gets to have Steve help with scanning the document, which involves bossing him about, and is never an opportunity to be passed up on.

“Are you sure about this?” Thor asks. “It’s a lot for you to take on.”

“Trust me, this will be a classic case of ‘many hands makes light work’.”

“I’m not sure that we can meet their requests. They seem to want a lot from us.”

The document, what little Tony has seen, hadn’t been worded as requests. It also hadn’t been terribly realistic. “I will fix this.” Hopefully he isn’t lying.

Pulling out his phone, he waits impatiently for his legal office to pick up. “Patty, tell Hiran I want the one page, reader’s digest version of that paperwork in time for breakfast, local time.”

Thor’s still looking on nervously. “I’m not sure-“

“I know you’re not.” Tony pats Thor on the shoulder, and wishes he could take the look of uncertainty away from him. “But, trust me: this is the best way to deal with it.”

After a long moment, where Tony’s half convinced he’ll have a fight on his hands to stop Thor collecting the original copies and making to read them here and now, Thor slowly takes a step back from the paper-storm all around them and sinks into one of the chairs. He doesn’t look so much resting as utterly spent. If Tony’s not careful, this is going to go down as the worst Christmas ever.

“So,” Thor says, always aiming to be so stoic when overwhelmed. “Now we wait.”

“No,” Tony corrects. “Now we forget about it. Because it is being dealt with by people far better equipped to deal with it than me or you. So tell me, what do you do around here when you _really_ want to chill out?”

*

He had, Tony admits to himself, been expecting a private drinking party in a quiet room somewhere. Or maybe for Thor to disappear off with a young, nubile thing.

He keeps forgetting that Thor’s a space Viking, and that space Vikings are apparently crazy, because Thor has assembled the Avengers all together and now they are heading out into the snow _again_.

Tony is never going anywhere cold and snowy in his life, ever, ever again.

Maybe Thor sees some of his trepidation, because he says, encouragingly, “You will like this. I’m sure of it.”

“I like my beer, but I’ve left it with that crazy Valkyrie woman of yours and I don’t think I’m going to see any of it again.”

Thor doesn’t disagree.

This time, when the structure appears out of the snow and the darkness, it’s because Tony has almost run into it. It’s low and squat and virtually dark from the outside. Only the barest hint of light escapes from what looks to be a well-fitted door.

“It’s rather warm in here,” Thor warns, like that isn’t the best thing Tony’s heard all day. Then he opens the door and a huge, billowing cloud of heat rushes out to meet them.

It’s enough to make Tony feel dizzy and, as they step into the hall, Pepper sways slightly. If she’s feeling anything at all like Tony is right now, the effects of the earlier alcohol indulgence is roaring back full-throatily as the heat sends blood pounding faster.

“What is this place?” Steve asks, which is another stupid question, because it’s clearly a Turkish bathhouse. Except not tiled or with visible baths or, for that matter, linked to Turkey.

Then, when the door slides shut behind Shuri, who’s been struggling at the rear of their group, Thor moves aside a thick hanging that Tony hadn’t even noticed in the dark, and soft firelight fills the area. “It’s the bathhouse,” he says.

“I win,” Tony declares, happily ignoring the fact that no one has read his mind to know that he’d made the right mental leap.

“I think we all win,” General Okoye corrects. She’s helping Shuri, whose teeth are chattering audibly, across the somewhat slippery floor and further into the frankly stifling heat.

For the first time since he’s arrived, Tony’s feeling over-dressed.

“Did you guys make this place?” Pepper asks, clearly impressed. For there’s a lot to be impressed by. In the low light, Tony can make out two huge pools, shimmering with steam, and a third, smaller, non-shimmering pool that painful experience in other times, makes Tony suspect is going to be absolutely frigid. Water flows through steep channels, that, frankly, look like they’re going to break someone’s ankle one day, into the pools and then out again from the left of the hall to the right. At the back of the space, small shadowy alcoves are half-shielded from view behind widely spaced boards.

Thor is saying something doubtless truly incredible about the making of this place, but Tony’s getting rather hot under the collar, so, building on his earlier success, it seems worth moving onto the next point, which is getting undressed. “Are those the changing rooms?” He points to the alcoves.

Thor stops talking to Pepper to give Tony a funny look which could have been about how rudely he’s spoken over them, but then Thor says, “Changing rooms?” And Tony’s mind skitters straight down memory lane to being a sniggering schoolboy talking about Scandinavian nudity. Suddenly it’s not quite so humorous.

Evidently Thor’s mind hits the same point at a similar time, though from the opposite direction. “Er-“

Pepper saves the day. “So, those are the towels, right?” She points to a piled-high shelf next to the door that Tony hadn’t noticed. There are pegs hammered haphazardly along the wall, because presumably you just get naked as you walk in and hang your clothes up where anyone could steal them. “I think that, maybe, the boys should go and wait in the antechamber, while the girls get in the water. And then you can follow us in.”

Tony would make a crack about worrying about the ‘girls’ ogling him – and really, why does Pepper get to call them girls and boys, while she’d read him the riot act for doing the same? – but he’s sure he’d end up coming off worst in that exchange.

Besides, T’Challa’s nodding and Thor’s drawing open the curtain to the anteroom and so it’s a little too late to worry.

Tony had assumed that, as warm as it had been when coming in from the snow, the anteroom would feel icy after the baths. It’s a pleasant surprise to realise that it just feels pleasantly refreshing after sweltering.

“I have to ask,” Tony turns to Thor, “what’s in the alcoves?” Isn’t massage a big deal with Scandinavian cultures?

“Private baths.”

Well, that’s almost as good.

*

What’s better, as it turns out, is the water. It’s blissfully hot.

Slumping back against the roughhewn stone, arms thrown casually out over the pool’s lip, in part to balance himself and in part to help stay cool, Tony wonders how long he can reasonably stay put.

“Oh, this is lovely!” Shuri laughs. “I can almost feel my toes again.”

“You find it that cold here?” Thor seems genuinely surprised.

“You _don’t_?”

“It is definitely chilly, but then, it is winter.”

“It’s _hideously_ cold. If I was stuck here, I would cry.” Someone must kick Shuri, or perhaps her mind catches up with her mouth, because she abruptly goes silent.

Tony’s got some sympathy for her; it’s not like he’s never got so distracted by the big picture that he’s forgotten about people’s pesky feelings.

It’s just that Thor’s laugh isn’t quite… right, and Tony’s spent the entire evening watching his comrade working at not falling apart. “I’ve heard that summer’s-” Tony tries to cut in and redirect the disaster.

Thor beats him to it. “You are, of course, quite correct that it is cold, Princess. But it is not dangerously so to a healthy Asgardian. And Tony is correct. By summer we expect temperatures somewhat higher than those Asgard used to reach.” Yes, there’s a catch when Thor uses the past tense, but he bulldozes his way through it without stopping. “So while the seasons are more extreme than we are used to, they centre around the same average.”

For someone who claims to have been banished to Midgard for a gross misjudgement in diplomacy, Tony thinks Thor’s a lot better at deflecting possible problems than he claims.

“That will be nice.” Shuri isn’t quite working at the same level of sophistication.

“Yes.” Thor seems to run out of words.

It’s General Okoye, of all people, who smooths over the silence. “In Wakanda, we tell tales and histories at times such as this.” Tony’s a little uncertain as to whether the times she’s referring to are ‘important festivals that have been hijacked to get goats’, or ‘moments of extreme discomfort’ or whether it turns out that every culture apart from Tony’s own likes lolling about in bathhouses and the General actually means ‘when a large, mixed group of naked people who are not quite strangers sit around in the gloriously warm pool trying to act at ease’. He’s not going to enquire: as it’s nice not being the undiplomatic group member for once, he’s not going to blow it.

“We have many tales,” T’Challa is apparently willing to go with Okoye’s lead. “Some are, of course, metaphorical, such as when fire was stolen from the gods by a tric- by a magician.” Nice save. “Or the tale of how our flowers grant us strength.”

“We have similar tales,” Pepper says, and, before Tony can call her a liar, she says, “One of them is about someone who saved every human from sins and used to do magic to turn water into wine and was resurrected and-“

She thankfully keeps on talking, Steve or Bruce or Natasha occasionally picking up the thread of their conversation. Which is good, because now that Tony’s aware that they’re all walking on eggshells, every conversation seems either to lead back to the destruction of Asgard or, somewhat gallingly, alludes to Loki.

“We also have tales.” All awkwardness aside, Thor seems to be settling into the conversation. “My favourites always used to be about the great battles, but mother also told us about the start of the realms and the spinning of magic; the Norns and the old wise women.”

“Oh, tell me more.” Shuri leans forward eagerly. “Why were the old women thought to be so wise?”

Thor smiles, easily. “Well, there are many examples. But perhaps the best is a tale about a not-so-old spinster called Dafn. One evening, while the menfolk were away at war, there was a great hammering of fists upon the door to the hall in which she dwelt. She-“

Tony lets Thor’s voice pull him away into a world of myth and drama.

*

Staggering into the Communal Hall the next morning, it’s a great relief to see Thor sitting at one of the tables with… pretty much everyone else around him. The team looks rather flat, but that makes sense when the preceding night went on so late. Plus, they’d eaten Dotty, so there’s likely some delayed guilt over that.

“Where’s the coffee?” While it’s clear that Tony has overslept, who can blame him, because, _hey!_ , he had an alien ship to explore. Despite, or perhaps because of this, the table looks suspiciously empty. “You’d better not have finished it.”

“There is no coffee,” Natasha says, glumly.

Tony’s pretty certain he’s got some stashed on the jet, but it’s not his place to show up Thor’s new digs. “Tea?” He’ll get over the missed coffee one day.

“No tea,” says Steve.

“Definitely not,” says the far-too-matronly-to-be-real woman from the night before. “I’ve heard all about the addictiveness of Midgardian tea and coffee.”

“It’s not that bad,” but Thor throws the comment in to the ring in a tone of voice that implies he’s not actually all that invested in the conversation and certainly doesn’t care out its outcome.

Which is probably just as well because the goodwife appears intent on standing her ground. “It sounds like terrible stuff. People apparently pay extortionate amounts every day to buy it from caffeine pushers.”

Which, okay, sounds rather over the top and like she’s caught onto the wrong end of the stick; save that it also sounds like something said by one of the yogis from Tony’s not infrequent brushes with seeking spiritual awakening. Caffeine-bans are not exactly what he wants to hear, but if it’s a thing, locally, then it’s a thing. “So, what is there to drink?”

“Well,” the goodwife appears to consider. “You could have beer? Or there’s water.”

Looking down the table, everyone save Thor seems to have gone for the water option. Tony’s liver will probably thank him if he does likewise. “Beer, please.” Hair of the dog’s always been more of his thing.

“Of course. And porridge?”

“Sounds like the perfect combination.”

“You are not flying us back.” Pepper says it as though Tony had seriously been considering doing so. “And here are your papers.” Ah. He’d noticed her half of the bed grow cold a while back, but had thought she’d maybe gone for a jog or taken part in one of those other crazy exercise activities she seems to prefer.

His lawyers have, technically, made the requested one page reader’s digest. As the paper’s top third basically consists of disclaimers stating that the document’s horrendously over-simplified and the bottom third’s full of commands to read the other ‘short briefings’ that make up the rest of the pages Pepper’s handed him, they’ve actually done better than asked.

Unfortunately, of the four short paragraphs that actually contain content, all are somewhat disheartening. Their little subheadings are nicely clear: (1) The UN categorically does not recognise New Asgard as a permanent colony or independent nation but, rather and only, as a refugee camp; (2) that the refugees, if they wish to settle permanently, will need to pay an alarmingly complex and highly expensive lease from now into perpetuity; (3) that, as the circumstances which led to them leaving their realm have changed and the threat eliminated, if the refugees will not pay to develop the camp into a settlement, they will have to leave within two years and no permanent damage/structures/etc must remain at that time; (4) that these terms are non-negotiable.

Tony reads it twice and then tries to figure out, firstly, where the UN thinks the Asgardians can go in two years and, secondly, how exactly they’re expecting the Asgardians to meet the payment terms if they remain.

All in all, it seems like a lot of bull.

Thankfully, Hiran, who apparently is leading this activity for him, has added the line: _Despite point (4), this appears to be an opening position for future negotiations and one that Thor should meet with the UN to discuss as soon as is possible._

“Thor?” He glances across to his host. “I’m sorry to break up the party, but is there any chance the two of us can get breakfast to go? I think we need to sort a few things out before I leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, is there enough Steve in this yet for me to get away with adding him as a tag? I’m not sure how to judge these things…
> 
> Editing this chapter after Endgame has been odd, to say the least.


	6. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a blurry video on the internet. It’s fuelling all sorts of rumours.

It starts with a riot. Really, that shouldn't surprise Thor.

He’s been having a few quiet days. Urrthan’s family have requested permission to make a small works for generating charcoal at a site towards the edge of the woods. In particular, the charcoal is needed because Frael and Sy want to melt down the bottles, left over from Stark’s generosity, to make glass goods. Thor’s granted them permission, though he’s uneasy to have them beyond Landing’s walls for such long times, because even he can see that the settlement will need charcoal soon.

Valkyrie, as though sensing his unease, has her ‘recruits’ running check-ups on the small family group nearly hourly. It appears to have developed into some sort of competition, with the fastest sprinters winning a location on a bench in the communal hall that, to Thor, looks no different from the others, but from the youths’ antics, has clearly been deemed ‘the best’.

As for himself, Thor is in the new private meeting area, talking with Eir about the supplies her hospital will need and the lack of progress Heimdall reports in reaching the other realms, when the phone chirrups.

Honestly, he’d mostly forgotten about Stark’s device.

*

When they’d all been younger, one of the few things Thor can remember sharing exclusively with his brother and father were story times. Not mother’s story times, where books were read and truths alluded to; these were small and scattered tellings of family history and destiny.

There had been nights reliving their father’s founding of the Nine Realms; the heroic battles of their grandfather Bor; the courtship of their mother from Vanaheim. Tales that were rich in colour, texture and righteousness and that were never very complicated.

It’s only recently that Thor has come to realise just how carefully plucked from their timelines each of those little tales must have been. Perfect shimmering gems presented with false clarity to Odin’s children, completely bereft of the context from which they’d been taken.

And then there’d been the tale Thor still can make no sense of: the turning back of the frost giants from Midgard.

_What_ in the names of all the Norns had their father been thinking of, telling _that_ tale as he had?

Maybe Thor was meant to have been smarter. Perhaps the tales were intended to be small curiosities to pique his interest. Maybe father had expected for him to follow up on those stories later, in the library, with the same dedication he’d taken to asking old warriors to map out the exact twists and turns of faded battles.

If so, Thor has failed his father.

Or maybe he’s placing too much weight on distant remembrances. He and Loki had both still been very young when their father stopped making time to whisper night-time stories to them. Why, Thor remembers being seated on his father’s knee for such occasions! Of course people lie to their children, thinking only to entertain.

And Thor had been entertained; but in such an instance it is evident that he has carried such nursery stories long past the moment when he should have cut them short and dug out the truth of them. For in his ignorance, he’d tormented his brother, though he hadn’t known as much at the time. As children, he’d set them to play games with the Jotunn as shadowy, unjustifiable monsters. As adults, he’d done worse in taking his brother to their homeworld.

How tightly he’s held to his ignorance! Even in their horrific, heart-breaking battle after the Destroyer came, Thor, freshly restored to his powers and determined to overthrow his brother’s regency, had missed the entire point and purpose in Loki’s mindlessness. Loki had as much as _told_ Thor what was haunting him. Had been weeping; clearly in need of love and support for all that he spat, raged and fought.

Thor had been blind. Too blind to piece it all together until, after all was said and done, his brother gone by Loki’s own determination, it happened that their mother had sat Thor besides her in her solarium, told him to listen carefully, and spelled out the words his brother had struggled to muster.

Even now, a decade later, Thor can still remember the look of fear and self-loathing in his brother’s eyes as he let go of Gungnir.

Thor had spent the entirety of the moments leading up to that instant, still not really listening to his brother’s pain.

But those are dark remembrances and, truly, their childhoods had mainly been light and laughter as well as competition and rivalry.

In that distant childhood time, the tales of the Jotunn hadn’t been the only ones their father had told. He had spoken so colourfully of the other realms that the young princes had been bedsides themselves with impatience to visit. Such journeys had formed the basis of another set of scenarios they’d play acted. Well, at least until they started their visits of state. No matter how many centuries pass, Thor still smiles to recall their first out-of-realm excursions to Alfheim and its oh-so-safe forests.

And Thor still remembers the night that his brother snuck into his room, declaring that he was freshly back from Midgard; reached by walking along secret paths. That he had spoken with the people of the realm, saved by their father, and found them primitive. That he had tricked and bedazzled them; appearing as first himself – a child – then a grown woman, then a fox before tiring and returning home to share the glorious news with his brother.

In hindsight, Thor should have believed him.

*

“I would tell you to turn on the news, but you don’t have a TV,” Stark’s voice comes over, loud and clear.

“What’s happening? Where do I need to go?” Thor’s already turning away from Eir. Throwing open the door to his chamber, it’s easy enough to pick up Stormbreaker, and thence to the main audience room, and the skies it opens on to.

“Japan. Which I know is a really long way-” it’s not “-but first you need to listen to me, and listen carefully. I’ll be meeting you there. I hope. But S.H.I.E.L.D.’s going to be there, too. And the locals are already on the scene.”

None of which really matters. “Is it an earthquake?” Japan has a lot of seismic activity from what Thor remembers. “Or are there more invaders?”

“Not exactly.” And then Stark goes silent.

Only the fact that ‘Japan’ is far too vague a term to act upon has Thor waiting. “Stark? Hello?” Maybe he’s broken the device again. The thought makes him grin. And to think! Stark had sounded so certain that he’d made it unbreakable this time!

Later he will remember very clearly that he’s grinning when Stark shatters that slight sense of peace Thor hadn’t even realised he’d been regaining. “Thor. They think they’ve seen Loki.”

Loki. Thor can almost _feel_ the sound of his neck snapping in Thanos’s grip. “That’s not possible.”

“There are recordings. They-“

Very, very calmly, Thor puts the phone down. Distantly, he can hear Stark’s voice squawking away tinnily; is aware of Eir’s hand on his forearm, her voice worried as she says, “My king, you look unwell.” Mostly he’s lost to reality; remembering instead that hideous moment, again and again. Thanos; Loki; Thor. Searching, as he has so many times before, for any instant when Loki could somehow have twisted reality or employed some small trick or other to make things not be as they were. As ever, Thor comes up blank.

His brother died. Then his very body was destroyed with the New Statesman by Thanos’s power.

Thor is as certain of that as he can be of _anything_. To be wrong about that…

He feels dizzy and grips the edge of the table, but it splinters under his grip, leaving no support to be found. For a moment, he’s seriously tempted to sit on the floor until everything stops spinning, but that would only alarm Eir further and, if none of this is true; if everything since that moment of Loki’s death is… If Thor’s completely lost track of the sane and real world, then worrying about falling over seems to be a very small thing indeed.

Of course, if he’s _not_ been driven crazy by grief, then falling is not such a good idea.

And his brother may well be alive. Again.

Thor doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or furious; his emotions mashing together and leaving him vaguely nauseous. But his hands feel like they’re under his control again at least. He picks up Stark’s device. “Where in Japan? Talk faster.”

Loki can move so quickly. Can come and go in a heartbeat. And if Thor never finds _anything_ , is that to mean that it was a simple case of mistaken identity, or that Loki has already left, off to conduct his own arcane schedule? Worse, will Thor be able to live with himself now that he knows he’d give anything for this report to be mistaken; Loki truly dead, rather than simply so indifferent to his people’s suffering – his _brother’s_ suffering – that he’d ignore them entirely?

“Not much to say. Just- I know you love him, but a lot of people don’t. And it’s going to be-”

“ _Where is he?_ ” Because Thor _does_ know just how many hate his brother, and Stark is, intentionally or otherwise, stalling him. And the Loki-look-alike might be gone if they’re too slow and then Thor will never _know_.

“Near Matsue. That’s a really small town on the coast of Honshu. There’s a shrine in the mountains nearby, but, really, if you’re that close, you can probably get away with following the crowds. If you wait for me-“ But Thor’s already dropped the phone and leapt airborne.

*

Matsue is indeed a small city. Seen from the air, the city spreads away from a large body of water in a neat grid pattern, bisected by a wide river. Low, forested mountains ring the city and neighbouring farmland, with a railway line cutting through into the mountains.

As Thor draws closer, other features become apparent. A myriad of tiny streams and canals that twist through the city; a wide park with an old castle, fishermen out in boats on the river.

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s jet is parked, dark and vaguely menacing, in front of a blocky building that appears to be the train system’s station. The jet seems oddly abandoned and, for a moment, Thor can’t see any of its black-clad denizens.

Setting down next to the it, Thor hesitates, frustratingly uncertain of his next steps.

Stark had said that he should easily be able to observe the action, but now that he’s here the area appears utterly devoid of life. Glancing back and forth shows no traffic on the roads, no people on the paths. In a brightly lit storefront, there’s a flicker of shadow as someone moves within, but whether that shadow belongs to a mortal or one of their domesticated animals, Thor couldn’t say.

The silence should feel oppressive, but instead Thor’s aware only of a dull emptiness.

Loki is not here. Thor is certain of it. There’s no sense of… presence. Of potential. The silent but present singing that is his brother’s Seidr.

This journey is an utter waste of time and a horrible trick to have played upon oneself. Loki died, by Thanos’s grip, on the New Statesman; his magic ebbing to nought in that moment, his flesh just a discarded vessel to disintegrate moments later in a shimmering haze of purple destruction.

Behind Thor, a door jangles open, startling him from the darkness in his mind’s eye.

Turning, he sees a tall, middle-aged local man, in casual work clothes. The man’s holding open the door to an establishment, letting out a warm cloud of coffee-scented air.

“Can I help you?” The man’s voice is oddly accented and it takes Thor a moment to realise that he must be speaking in the Midgardian English, not his own tongue.

Thor doesn’t overly worry when replying, instead letting the Allspeak render his words interpretable. “I’m looking for…” Save that even the Allspeak can’t help, not when Thor doesn’t know what it is he wishes to say.

Is he here looking, in a twisted parody of hope, for his brother? Is he here because S.H.I.E.L.D. is, and so Thor should appear to be helpful, even if there is nothing to see?

Or is he escaping Landing? Its endless, grinding neediness? How can he love the place one moment, feeling proud of his people’s fortitude and achievements, then the next moment by rendered sick by their losses and hopelessness?

“Your Japanese is very good.” But if the man’s surprised by this, it’s not conveyed in his tone. The words have the practiced lilt of an often repeated compliment. Thor wonders how many strangers this man sees in his café.

Thor wonders how many familiar faces _he’ll_ never see again. Fandral, Hogun and Volstagg. The maid, Sal, who used to tend to his rooms. Sif. His parents. His brother.

“Thank you.” He says, because there is nothing else he can say.

“You’re in the wrong place.” The man offers. “Unless the fighting’s moved.”

“Fighting?” Stark hadn’t mentioned a battle, only a search.

The man gives Thor a look. It’s not unfriendly exactly, or distrustful, but certainly carries elements of both. “Isn’t there always when you are around?” The word ‘you’ implies more than just Thor, a quirk in the local language, but it isn’t the first time Thor has felt like a harbinger of doom.

“There shouldn’t be fighting this time.” Except that if it’s Loki, it means that anything could happen, either at Loki’s own bidding or in retaliation for his attacks on Midgard.

Save that Loki is dead, so this isn’t Loki, and nothing is going to happen. It’s just a case of mistaken identity. Norns know Thor kept glimpsing his brother from the corner of his eye the first time he died.

Why would people, on the far side of the globe from New York or Landing, think they had seen Loki? It makes no sense.

Maybe-

Thor crushes the through.

Loki is dead. Because if he isn’t…

Thor hasn’t even _looked_ for him this time. Because he’s dead.

“That’s good.” The café worker is saying. “But I think we’ll wait it out, just to be sure.”

It takes Thor a moment to remember what they had been discussing and then he realises that the man is saying that people have taken cover, expecting a great battle. The thought is… both sad and sensible.

“Where have they gone?”

“You don’t know?” But rather than spend time marvelling over Thor’s lack of situational knowledge, the man just pulls out a smartphone; hits some buttons; brings up a map. The place names are in yet another Midgardian writing style, and Thor seriously wonders how the various peoples of the planet manage to communicate, but he can follow well enough the curves of the rivers, the shading of the city, the texturing indicating mountains.

“Do you have satellite view?” Thor asks. It will certainly be useful to know what he’s looking at.

Or maybe not. When the man switches the view using mortal engineering magic, it’s apparent that the photos are not real time, as Stark’s always are, but rather show summer.

Thor doesn’t point this out. It seems like it would be rude.

“The shrine is here.” The man makes the appropriate incanting gestures with his fingers across the view, and the image enlarges until Thor is looking down on the rooftops of a complex near to a small, rural village. It looks to be a few minutes flight away. “But that was nearly five hours ago.”

He gives Thor another look that’s hard to interpret. Then, with a glance at the jet, he adds, “They turned up about two hours ago.” The word for ‘they’ feels very polite, but, looking at the man, Thor can see that he’s spooked.

Stark had implied that the American S.H.I.E.L.D. would not arrive before Thor, so this group must be from some regional garrison.

Regional garrisons can be tricky; there’s always something going on below the surface. Politics and pride. On the other hand, Loki stabbed Agent Coulson and destroyed Fury’s helicarriers, so the regional team might be the better option for an update.

Why did they leave their jet in Matsue, if they were going to a shrine several miles away?

Apparently he asked the question out loud, because the man answers, “That’s not the only one. There are seven sighted so far.” Face turned to his device, he’s pulling up a new image, this one showing lumps of text in coloured boxes. They raster past as the man flicks his fingers. “Make that eight. We think they’re searching.”

Yes. Stark had said that they didn’t have Loki in custody. Which is obvious, because there is no Loki to put in chains. But eight jets…. That’s a lot of teams for a case of mistaken identity.

Thor’s dimly aware that his fingers are shaking. Because nothing makes sense. It feels like there are two realities flowing around him. One where Loki is dead and Thor is strangely in Japan, talking to a man about inconsequential things, watching everyone overreact. The other, where Loki is-

But Loki _isn’t_.

“Are you alright?” For the first time, the man seems to really be looking at Thor and there’s a small frown as he does so.

“I am, of course, quite hale.” But even to himself, Thor doesn’t sound convincing. A tiny spark jumps between the fingers of his left hand and Thor quickly clenches his hand into a fist to suppress it. He’s not lost control like that since he was a child.

Considering that he’s standing next to a god apparently losing control of his powers, the man doesn’t seem overly alarmed. “He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

The word ‘brother’ carries connotations of ‘younger’ and, for once, seems lacking in disgust or blame, instead conveying something that might be concern.

“He’s dead.” Thor is very, very certain of this. “I can’t fathom why they would have thought otherwise.”

“Well. The videos, of course.” And, because Thor seems to have found the most wonderful person in the city, the man is already re-enchanting his phone to summon a recording.

It’s short, running on a jerky loop lasting about twenty heartbeats in total, and there is no sound. First, there’s a little girl in a pink robe holding something small and white in her hands. She’s smiling and saying words that haven’t been captured. Then there’s mass movement in the background; what had been a crowd of people milling around some brightly painted structures is suddenly a fast moving crowd, although all the people are moving in different directions. The motion’s made worse when the camera sweeps up and off to one side and then Thor can see, very clearly, someone walking down the steps from one of the structures.

It doesn’t look like the type of structure that is meant to be actually used.

There are five steps; brightly painted in red and gold. Thor watches every single shaking step as the figure descends.

At first there is space around the apparition. Then there are people racing forwards and away. There is chaos.

The video loses the stumbling man, sweeping around wildly; there’s an impression of that little girl in pink being snatched up.

The loop starts again.

Standing patiently besides Thor, the café worker lets the video cycle three times and, as it reloads for the fourth time, says, “There are other videos.”

Thor doesn’t need to see them.

Loki. His shape; his clothes; his terrible, unruly hair; the way that he staggers when he’s exhausted and in pain.

Watching the small, grainy image felt like the Hulk landed a blow.

Looking up from the video is like seeing sunrise.

“Where _exactly_ was that?”

*

The shrine, when Thor arrives, is more or less as he expected considering that S.H.I.E.L.D. is involved. Civilians have been kept at a distance, held back beyond a fenced-off perimeter. Sheets and screens have been erected. Mortals with technological boxes pace back and forth, conducting their truth-seeking rituals.

Thor is, unsurprisingly, frustratingly, instantaneously, met by two suited individuals.

“I’m Agent Yamamoto, this is Agent Masano.” The lead agent is a short, older woman; her greying hair cropped almost as short as Thor’s own. Her partner is a younger man who looks like he could flatten buildings. She’s speaking in English, as though the language she uses actually matters to Thor.

“I’m-”

“We know who you are.” She cuts him off with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s usual brutal efficiency. “We were warned you might arrive.”

‘Warned’ doesn’t sound promising. “I’m here to-”

“You will not interfere with our operation.”

Their operation to find Loki? Loki who is hurt. Loki, who has been alone when Thor should have found him, protected him, taken him to their new home and made sure that he was well.

Loki is not an operation. “You think you’ve found my brother and-”

“We have this under control.”

“Obviously you don’t because-”

“Your assistance is not required at this point.” And what exactly do they think that they’re going to do when they find Loki? Even hurt, his brother will be a formidable opponent for these mortals. Especially when he recovers in their custody. They _must_ be aware of that.

Glancing at the weapons strapped to Agent Masano’s legs, Thor has a horrible premonition that he’s not going to like their plans for Loki.

“So you just want me to up and leave?” That’s not going to happen.

_Norns! But he’s left Loki alone for far too long!_

“I would prefer that you return to your home, but if you wish to wait, given the circumstances, you may stay in our rest area.” She indicates a small boxy structure that looks like every other S.H.I.E.L.D. portable building.

“No.” There is no chance of Thor sitting quietly out of the way while his brother’s out there, hurt, and being hunted by S.H.I.E.L.D.

“We do not require your assistance.” Agent Yamamoto repeats herself as thought this strengthens her argument.

“Have you found my brother yet?” It’s only as he speaks that it occurs to Thor that maybe he shouldn’t have confirmed to them that the man in the videos is, in actual fact, Loki.

On the other hand, they’ve already put this many warriors into the search; they’re clearly certain who it is that they’ve seen.

“That’s classified.” Her face is perfectly blank; they might have Loki, they might not, and Thor would never be able to tell from her face.

He might never be told at all.

He might search and search and search for his brother, never finding him because S.H.I.E.L.D. has already taken him; has locked him up or killed him, or had him die in captivity and-

Thor tries to tell himself that Fury wouldn’t _not_ tell Thor of such an occurrence, but it rings hollow in his soul. Fury will do whatever he feels he has to do to protect his realm, much as Odin would.

Thor looks into the agent’s eyes and realises that if he _doesn’t_ find Loki first he is never going to know what happens to him. Will never know whether his brother is alive and free; dead in a ditch; or trapped like a rat in a box by S.H.I.E.L.D.

“If you promise you will let me know when you have found something, I will go back to Landing.”

Is it truly a lie, if both parties are complicit?

Irrespective of philosophy, the dishonour of his false words burns all the way down Thor’s throat. It’s like the words themselves have sliced into his flesh.

But Loki is alive. Thor must go to him. Nothing else matters.

“Of course.” Agent Yamamoto agrees. “You’ll see that this is for the best.”

*

Thor flies exactly far enough that he’s out of sight, then drops down into the forest. It’s too much to hope that his deception will not be noticed; S.H.I.E.L.D. never takes anything on trust. They’ll be sure to have been tracking him some way or other.

It’s almost a relief that he won’t get away with his lie, especially as, having left the agents behind, it doesn’t really matter what they know or don’t know anymore.

No. What matters is what _Thor_ can come to know.

Sinking down to kneel in the mulch of pine needles and decaying leaves, Thor wishes, for perhaps the first time, that he had even a fraction of his brother’s affinity for Seidr.

Closing his eye shouldn’t help with magic any more than stretching out his fingers into the damp earth, but he does both things regardless.

Then he tries to reach out _more_.

No one has ever said that Thor’s Seidr is weak. The crackle and fury of his lightening has always shown his power. But its very vastness holds its own drawbacks. Thor has never mastered the intricate weaving of magic that seems to come so easily to Loki. His few childhood attempts to do so seemed to shred themselves under their own force; even Mjolnir had barely been strong enough to help him, as a youth, in focussing his Seidr.

Now, kneeling silently in this empty woodland, listening for the slightest song of his brother’s Seidr, all that Thor can hear is the thunder of his own.

It feels hopeless.

Loki had looked so _weak_ in that video. His feet unsteady on every step. His hand barely clenched upon the rail.

He’s hurt and vulnerable and S.H.I.E.L.D. is tracking him.

If S.H.I.E.L.D. find him, they’ll do what they do best. They’ll contain the threat; contain Loki, because he is a demonstrated threat to Earth.

Loki is so _vulnerable_.

And what if someone _else_ finds Loki first? Thank the Norns that they’re not in America, where the scars of the Chitauri invasion run deepest, but it still seems too much to hope that anyone finding his brother would be friendly.

Thor _really_ needs to find Loki _now_.

And then he hears it. Just the gentlest of silences. The most subtle of scents. Something so fleeting it feels more like a memory than a truth, save that Thor can never remember the taste of magic when it’s spent.

For several frantic heartbeats he can’t find that trace again.

There!

Stumbling to his feet he loses it. He loses it when he walks; he loses it when he stops. It’s gone when he breathes and lost when he blinks. Reaching out to register the threads of Loki’s Seidr snaps them short.

The sun sets. The sun rises. It makes no difference: Thor simply cannot track Loki.

Then, suddenly, he sees a hand.

Pale, loosely curled, resting on the top of a steep culvert.

Splashing down into the stream, Thor collapses besides his brother’s body. Loki’s eyelids are bruised; his cheeks sunken. Water is lapping about him, and leaves have caught in his clothing and tangled in his hair. There’s a tint of blue to his skin that doesn’t look to just be from chill.

He is not moving.

Thor should pause. He should be struggling and hesitant, much as he was earlier, talking to the café worker. Instead he finds himself responding with decision. His hands are firm though careful as they tilt Loki’s head. Gently, gently! For Thanos broke the fragile neck on which that head rests, so regardless of the fact that Loki had, just the day before, been up and walking around Thor must be ever so tender. So it is that Thor feels for a pulse at the same time as dropping forward to rest his cheek and ear over Loki’s mouth.

For the longest moment, he can’t feel anything.

Instead, when he first detects it, it’s by sound. The slightest rasp of an inhale. His brother; his brother is breathing!

Thor thinks he might cry.

Instead he gathers Loki close and pulls him out of the dip through which the stream is racing. That done, he lays his brother down, head carefully tilted back to minimise the chance that he’ll choke on his own tongue, and carefully runs his hands up and down his brother’s limbs, across his torso and around the lines of his skull. Nothing seems to be out of alignment.

The Norns alone know what injuries Loki _does_ have, but at least the more obvious breaks are ruled out.

Wrapping Loki in his own red cloak is more for Thor’s own peace of mind than Loki’s comfort. His brother has never been troubled by the cold for reasons which have become blindingly obvious of late.

But as well as making Loki look warmer, the cloak hides the dirt and grime and general state of bedraggledness that Loki’s in. It makes him look safe and tidy and not like some ghastly corpse Thor has dragged out of a winter stream.

It’s an impression that doesn’t last. Loki’s utterly limp when Thor moves him, limbs lolling alarmingly loosely, even more so when Thor hoists him into his arms. There’s nothing do be done, save to pull his brother tight against his chest and to start to swing Stormbreaker.

There’s no way Thor will be able to carry Loki all the way back to Landing in one go. Not like this. Loki will slip from his grip and then fall. But if Thor can break things down into much smaller steps, each one kept brief, then the journey should be possible. He very carefully _doesn’t_ think about what might happen if Loki’s condition destabilises. He doesn’t even know what’s _wrong_ with Loki, forget how to prevent it from worsening.

“Going somewhere?”

Supporting his brother, nearly ready to take off, and now startled, Thor almost overbalances. Instead he catches Stormbreaker, instinctively holding her so the broad battle-axe is between Loki’s head and the rest of the world.

“Agent Coulson.” This is… both unexpected and really not who Thor wants to see now.

Philip Coulson’s brought other agents with him. A slim, dark-haired woman, who Thor’s seen once or twice before, but has never gotten the name for. A tall man. Agents Yamamoto and Masano.

“Thor.” Coulson nods. “I see you’ve found Loki.” It’s only to be expected that Coulson’s voice lacks in any attempt at friendliness. “I thought he was reported dead.”

Loki might as well be dead for all the help that he’s able to offer now. Thor’s more than aware that they’re both soaked to the skin and that he can barely feel his brother draw breath. “Obviously we were mistaken about that.” He locks eyes with Coulson as he tries to shift Loki into a more comfortable position. “It seems to have happened a lot lately.”

Coulson doesn’t have the grace to look embarrassed by that; it makes Thor wonder how many people already know of his return and for how long he’s been back.

“I thought you were returning to New Asgard,” Agent Yamamoto says. “Or should I have expected lying from you as well as from him?”

There is no way that Thor is putting Loki down while they sort this out. Not with the agent looking at his helpless brother as if she wants to kill him. Over the shoulder it is then; and hope there’s no major internal bleeding. “Technically I only promised to go if you kept me informed. Where you planning to keep me informed, my lady?” Lying on a technicality is still a lie.

He distracts himself from that by looking around at the eight other agents loosely moving to circle him. Unfortunately freeing up his movement more has only brought to light another series of problems. Because Thor can’t fight his way out of this one.

Well, _literally_ he could. It’s just that, then, what would he do? Where would he go?

He’ll have started a battle with S.H.I.E.L.D. that his people are in no position to wage. He has no soldiers; they’ve no way to retreat; they do not have weapons.

To start a fight now is to condemn his people to annihilation and their new home to destruction, but to leave his brother…

Thor takes a very definite step back.

Alas, running’s no more an option than fighting.

He forces his jaw up and looks, hard, at Coulson. “Why are you here?”

“For him, of course.” The agent calmly nods to Loki, slung gracelessly over Thor’s shoulders.

“He was remanded to my custody.” Years and lifetimes ago.

Coulson raises an eyebrow. “He was remanded to the custody of Asgard and the Allfather.”

_Do not punch the mortal; do not punch the mortal._ “I am now the Allfather.”

It’s a ridiculous claim to make. He’s filthy, far from home and has no reinforcements. Thor forces his back straight and his head up high. Even Odin, even Bor before Odin, have had their moments at a disadvantage. Thor can endure this.

“Yes, I heard about that.” Coulson takes his sunglasses off, a move that loses much of its impact given that Erik once told Thor such gestures were calculated to build trust. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Thor has taken blows from a Titan. Mere words shouldn’t be enough to stagger him. In truth, he’d assume he imagined the wave of dizziness to race through him, save that when he can focus beyond the internal litany of _allmother dead, allfather dead, all of your people dead_ Coulson’s stepped forward, one hand up as though to steady Thor, and the crease of worry between the mortal’s brows is far from being on-script.

Thor takes a second step back, even knowing that it’s futile and thankfully Coulson doesn’t try to close the distance again.

“Are you well?” The question’s almost as bad.

Thor can feel his brother’s meagre body heat, faintly, against the back of his neck, where the bare skin of Thor’s neck is pressed against the leathers covering his brother’s belly. Even close as he is, Loki’s temperature is barely higher than the stones and the ice around them. For all Thor can tell right now, his brother could have expired in the last minute, this flesh that Thor’s carrying a mere cooling corpse. But Coulson wants to ask after _Thor’s_ health?

“I think you have your priorities backwards.” Or maybe not. Thor is one of their Avengers, not his brother.

Coulson makes a gesture that could be agreement or could be defence or could simply be nothing at all. He’s more inscrutable than Loki has ever been. “My priorities are the defence of Earth and you’re currently carrying one of Earth’s greatest enemies. Care to explain?”

Loki is in no position to be anyone’s enemy right now.

“Care to explain how you came to be following me?” Stark’s lawyers had been drafting up a list of counter-claims to the UN demands. Thor’s certain that the right to privacy had been among those demands.

“Let’s just say, we had a feeling that watching you might yield results.” Coulson has the compassion not to add, _and look at those results._

Thor would feel guilty about that, but Yamamoto cuts in to add, “If you didn’t want us to find your little brother, you should have stayed away. He was doing a better job of staying hidden without you around.”

As mostly Loki had been doing a better job of getting dead without Thor around, it’s easy not to feel too provoked over that barb.

“You are correct that he is my brother. So you may not have him from me. You should not have wasted your time following me, but, if you wanted to confirm that he is not, in fact, free to cause you trouble, you may now consider that so confirmed.” _And leave. Please, leave._

Coulson starts to say, “I’m afraid I-“

Once upon a time, in one of the very few lessons in diplomacy Thor can ever remember clearly from his mother, she’d been chastising him. Thor had been very young and even more brash and may have been bragging about thrashing some useless weakling or other on the training field. Thor can’t remember all of the details and has a horrible feeling he may have been mocking his brother. He can’t remember the punishment for his transgression, though he knows his mother must have issued some such, but what Thor does remember is what she had said about _words_. Words which, in the dust and sweat and violence of the field, seemed like the last thing Thor had needed to understand. _My son, words shape reality. Once spoken they are hard to live up to and harder still to barter down. You shouldn’t have issued such a diktat, for now you must stand by it or be oath-sworn._

Coulson will say, any moment now, that he is afraid that Thor cannot take his brother. And, in so saying, Coulson will then have made a decision: one that he cannot go back on without Thor being able to prove, in a manner far beyond his current capacity, that it is right for the agent to change his mind.

But if Thor can stop those words from ever being said, then the requirement to be met for Loki to go with him will be easier to bare. Because he will not have to be seen to present an argument compelling enough to have _changed_ Coulson’s mind, but merely to have reached the one, logical conclusion in discussion with him.

Thor locks eyes with Coulson and cuts him off. “He needs medical care. Care you cannot provide.”

Coulson frowns, possibly frustrated that Thor’s not listening to him.

Thor doesn’t let himself care and carries on talking. How he wishes for his brother’s way with words right now! “Loki is my brother, and my responsibility. It is imperative that I get him to suitable medical treatment.” Which will be far, far away from the unmarked cells of S.H.I.E.L.D. “If he were to die-“ _No, no, stop! Don’t issue threats!_ “My understanding is that the correct medical treatment of all prisoners is enshrined in your laws.”

Slowly, oh so slowly, Coulson nods.

The mortal’s eyes are impossible to read, though Thor knows that Coulson must know this is not about the healing of his brother, but also his very future.

Coulson does point out, “We have a range of treatment facilities that-“

“My brother’s illness is currently undiagnosed. I cannot be sure that you can treat him.”

“Then you cannot be sure that you can treat him either.” But then Coulson sighs, runs his hand through his hair – not quite a gesture of frustration or resignation, but again, something perhaps calculated to look like that – and says, “Did you know that he was here? Did you lie to us about this?”

Yamamoto and the male agent by Coulson’s side are looking at their liege like he has lost his mind, but Coulson’s female agent seems unperturbed and, deep inside himself, Thor feels something relax. Coulson is asking Thor if his intentions are still honourable.

Finally something Thor can swear to.

“You have my word, as Allfather, as ruler of my people and as myself, that, until this morning, I truly believed my brother dead. I have no intent to allow him to cause harm to you and yours.”

“And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell us who told you he was back?” Thor’s jaw snaps shut guiltily. “No, never mind. That video’s been all over the web by now. It doesn’t really matter if Stark was the first to let you know or the last.” Coulson looks almost as annoyed with Stark as he does with Loki, so Thor keeps his silence.

“Do you give me your word that you will keep your brother contained?”

Contained? Loki?

“I give you my word that I will do everything I can to keep track of my brother.”

Yamamoto spits, “That is hardly-“

Coulson cuts her off with a raised hand. “It’s probably as much as we could promise.” Then, on turning to Thor, “Will you at least notify us if he goes missing from your custody in New Asgard?”

The entirety of ‘New Asgard’, as he so optimistically names it, consists of a few primitive wooden communal structures, a ransacked spaceship and a glorified sauna. Yet _this man_ thinks Thor’s going to lock his clearly traumatised brother up in a specially crafted, state-of-the-art cell and throw away the key?

Well, he’s more than welcome to think that, if it gets him off Thor’s back.

Thor nods decisively. “And so, I will now be taking my brother.” The thunder god tries his hand at lying-but-not-really-lying. Alarmingly, it seems to work.

“I also want you to promise that we can speak with your brother when he is able.”

Visions of cages and medical bays with warped purposes flash through Thor’s mind. Thoughts of his brother, healed enough to be handed over and hurt by the mortals… Loki trapped and alone and thinking that he’d been abandoned…

“ _When_ he wakes, you may talk to him. But only if I am present.” S.H.I.E.L.D. will find it harder to vanish him than Loki. Or so Thor hopes. Maybe if he alerts Stark before any such conversation takes place?

“He’s an adult. He doesn’t need you there.”

“I am his king.” It should be strange to assert such dominion over his brother, but in this instance, where his brother is in need, it seems easy to say. “I will be there.”

“We’ll meet at a S.H.E.I.L.D. facility.” Coulson makes the offer as though in demand for conceding to Thor’s own demand that he be present, but there’s no argument as far as Thor’s concerned. He doesn’t want S.H.I.E.L.D. any nearer to Landing and his fragile people than he can keep them.

“Acceptable,” he agrees.

Coulson nods, but looks troubled. Thor would think it at his own easy capitulation on the meeting location, save that Coulson is already speaking, “We’re planning on suppressing the rumours of Loki’s return anyway, but this complicates things. His presence at New Asgard could reflect badly on your people.”

Thor frowns, “How so?” It’s not like the population of Earth are not already aware that Loki is of Asgard. There’s been little enough anger thrown at them for that thus far.

“Your status with the UN is unclear.”

Which Thor already _knows_. Loki, still limp across his shoulders, feels even stiller and cooler than ever. “Your point?” Surely Thor can leave now?

“If the wrong people are not happy with Loki being held in Asgardian custody, it could influence votes, emergency supplies, that sort of thing. I’m afraid your brother has made a lot of enemies. You don’t want them to become Asgard’s enemies.”

None of which is news to Thor. “You imply that your leaders lack honour to the point that they would vote against a home for refugees out of a need to fulfil their own personal grudges?” He really needs to find a way to get his people off this planet. Their salvation risks turning into a hel.

Coulson looks troubled at that. “Maybe not such a big issue. But for smaller things, like the issuing of supplies…”

They’ve already eaten all the supplies and, frankly, the tents that were issued were useless and so have been shredded for their threads. Thor’s not really sure how making reference to such supplies counts as a threat. There’s nothing that Earth’s leaders can come to reclaim.

He says as much.

Coulson’s unnamed female agent looks troubled. “What do you mean, you’ve eaten it all?”

“Asgardians eat fast.” Yamamoto says, which is true, if somewhat rude. “You should ask the UN to increase the frequency of resupply drops.”

Thor frowns. “What resupply drops?”

There’s a moment’s silence. It’s long enough that Thor worries that he’s said something wrong; has somehow lost at this game of words and that everything will have to start over again, like a battle won by bluffing, in which the opposition, upon realising that there are no archers hiding in the trees, decides at the last moment not to capitulate.

He could still lose Loki.

Unbidden his fingers clench tight around his brother’s wrist.

_Where will they go if they must flee?_

Coulson’s the one to break the silence. “When was the last time that you were given supplies?”

“When we arrived.” The question seems so innocuous that it puts Thor even further on his guard.

Coulson and his female agent exchange a look.

“Have you been rejecting the supplies?” She says.

“…No.” There’s another look exchanged. “Is there something I should have done?”

“No.” Coulson sounds definite. “You should have received more food, educational supplies, medical supplies…” He trails off, but Thor can only shake his head slowly in denial. “Okaaay.” For once Coulson looks startled. “That’s not good. I’ll check up on this for you.”

And then, mercy of mercies, the agent is turning away. He’s making shooing gestures to his underlings who, in turn, are lowering weapons and melting back into the underbrush. Thor doesn’t care exactly _where_ they are going at that moment, merely that they are going.

He wants to lay his brother down and re-evaluate his condition, but more than that, he wants to get them both away from their current location before anything else-

Coulson turns back before Thor’s even really begun to spin Stormbreaker. It’s horrendously unfair.

“I don’t suppose you want a lift?”

Thor’s so startled, he almost loses track of the axe.

*

The S.H.I.E.L.D. plane is large, black, and looks reinforced enough that breaking out of it might take a second or two longer than Thor would like. When they enter through the retractable ramp, Thor can see that Midgardian ground transportation devices are stabled in the vessel’s belly, which seems efficient, so it’s something of a surprise when, just beyond, he sees a compact laboratory.

Unease curls through him.

“Hello.” A smiling young woman in a while coat comes towards him, steps so quick that she’s almost dancing with eagerness. “I’m Simmons. I know who you are of course.”

“Greetings, my lady.” Try as he might, Thor doubts that he can hide the fact that he is deeply distrustful of her motives.

It’s a concern that proves to bear fruit when Coulson says, “I thought that Simmons could help you stabilise your brother. The laboratory has-“

“We will be quite fine in the seating area.”

They might very well _not_ be quite fine in the seating area. Loki remains alarmingly limp, and Thor doesn’t have the first idea as to what his brother has been though of late. But that gleaming white workspace looks… untrustworthy.

“I can assure you that-” Coulson starts, but the young woman speaks over him.

“I understand that the laboratory looks rather scary,” her large eyes are earnest, “but I can assure you that it is the best place for…” she stumbles to a halt then rallies with, “Prince Loki. It may not look like it, but we do regularly use this space to treat teammates with injuries and I am a very qualified medic.”

Thor doesn’t doubt that, young though she looks. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t in the habit of recruiting second tier artisans. “Nonetheless-“

But she’s slowly backing up, the lab doors hissing open to admit her as she goes. “I’m sure you’ve seen similar facilities with Dr Banner and Mr Stark.” The doors and connecting wall look like glass; Thor has no doubt that they’ll be the same ‘glass’ that the Helicarrier’s cage had been formed from. He steadfastly refuses to take a step inside.

Simmons appears unperturbed. “This is the scanner,” she runs her hands lightly over a large, flat bed. “You can put Loki down here when you’re ready. Normally we record all scans-” a quick glance to him, then Coulson, then back to him, “-but I give you my word that we won’t record anything today. When we know what’s wrong, then there are a number of different facilities, drugs and treatments that can be employed. I promise to take you through them in detail before using any of them.”

There’s a longer pause, no doubt while she’s waiting for him to capitulate, but Thor can’t do that. Not with Loki. He has to look after him, protect him, ensure that he’s doing the right thing and-

“If you’re not certain about any of the treatments, we can try to get a second opinion from Mr Stark or Dr Banner.” That draws a sudden twitch of unease from Coulson, but Simmons is still talking, face twisting in discomfort. “Although I’m honestly not sure that I can get hold of them at such short notice. Dr Banner isn’t readily reachable and as for Mr Stark…”

Thor has a device, currently thrust in his belt, that will connect him directly to Stark.

Getting a second opinion isn’t such a bad idea. It certainly speaks to the healer’s willingness to be monitored.

Speaking of monitoring. “I would prefer to treat my brother alone.” Loki has always been a stickler for his privacy. He’ll be infuriated enough that Thor intends to scan him.

“No.” That’s Coulson.

“I’m really not sure that I can show you how to use the scanner in time and-”

It’s the genuine uncertainty on Simmons’ face that convinces Thor. She looks much as Jane did when trying to teach him how to drive.

To be sure, Thor hadn’t crashed the vehicle, but it had been a close thing.

“You will not record anything.” Not than anything can be done about her own memories.

Simmons is already nodding and Coulson gives a resigned, “Agreed.”

“No one else will be present.”

“Agreed.” That’s Coulson, sounding put-upon.

“And no actions will be taken without me being made aware of the full implications?”

“Agreed.”

But it’s Simmons who give Thor that twist of trustworthiness he can believe in. “In so much as I can predict those implications,” she says.

Which is fair.

*

As Thor steps in to the laboratory, the door immediately closes. There’s a faint hissing and variation in airflow as the atmosphere is brought to whatever standardised parameters the healer prefers.

“Do you need…?” She’s crowding in close to him and it takes Thor a moment to realise that she’s trying to help take Loki.

Loki, who is all lean, hard muscle and water-soaked leathers.

“I’ve got him.”

Once Simmons gets out of the way, it’s easy enough to lay Loki down. For a moment, Thor is held captive, frozen in his need to watch that slight rise and fall of his chest; the almost imperceptible jump of a pulse in his neck.

He doesn’t look any different than he did on board the New Statesman.

Gently, reverently, Thor smooths a loose lock of hair back from his pale face. The hair still smells faintly of the oils Loki prefers to keep it under control.

The movement bares Loki’s brow and the slightest shadow of Jotunn inheritance lines upon it.

“Um. Excuse me.” Simmons is patting, very tentatively, at Thor’s arm, jolting him from his thoughts. “If you can just let go for a moment, I can run a scan.”

“A scan?” Of course. Because they are meant to be checking his brother for harm.

Simmons apparently misunderstands his statement. “It will bring up details of his skeletal structure, circulation system and organs, including his skin. It will also record – I mean measure – basic data such as blood pressure, pulse rate, temperature, breathing rate and, well, other things. Do you want the technical or simplified explanation as to how it works?”

Thor gives her a very blank look, leading her to volunteer, “Coulson prefers the simplified version, but Daisy always liked the very, very simplified version.”

Thor has no idea who Daisy is.

“I do not require that information, healer.”

“Healer? Oh, hum.” She laughs, more than a little nervously. “Really, it’s doctor. But not the medical kind. The geeky kind. Not that I don’t know what I’m doing here – I very much do – but-”

“I understand mortal academic titles.” They’re probably the only ones he does.

“Of course you do,” Simmons sounds more than a little like she wishes she could erase time. “You used to date Dr Foster.”

“The scan?” Maybe if he gets her back on target?

“Oh yes!” She flicks her hands and…

The mortal technological magic shimmers, a light translucent grey, above his brother’s form. Simmons says ‘bones’ fairly unnecessarily. By leaning over, Thor can see more closely the lines and joints that make up Loki’s lanky frame. He’s drawn straight to the location he knows Loki was last injured at.

“What’s this?” He’s careful to keep his hands far back from Simmons’ technology, lest his very gesture be transmitted by arcane methods, to act upon his brother’s body.

It’s unnerving to watch her plunge her hands into that image and stretch it wide, but the only impact seems to be to enlarge the image. “That’s not good.”

“That would be putting it mildly.”

“The vertebra of Loki’s neck are… not being correctly rendered.” Simmons suggests. “Maybe it’s the metal in the suit? I mean, if that was real, the movement alone should have severed-” Which is eminently sensible because the answer is either that that, or that Loki’s cervical vertebrae are shattered so badly as to be close to pulverised.

Thor really wishes that he believed the former explanation over the latter.

“Will I disrupt the scan if I touch him?”

“I… Not the scan, no, but I don’t think that-”

Instead of interpreting her concerned stream of words, Thor closes his eyes and, as carefully as he can, lets his fingertips rest along the sides of his brother’s neck. For a long moment he holds still, trying to pick up the flow of Loki’s Seidr. It’s possible that there’s a faint buzzing along his fingertips, but, in all honestly, Thor’s not sure.

Dejected, he lets his hands drop away. Still, one thing is certain: Loki is not yet dead, thus, “I believe that he is using his Seidr to stabilise the injury.” Which would go some way to explain his brother’s current exhaustion.

“Oh, crumbs.”

“Are there any other injuries?” Because if there’s one thing that they really need now, it’s to know what they are dealing with.

“His left arm was flagged up.” Simmons sends the view skittering off to the side, finally coming to a stop where the Titan had blocked Loki’s arm in and, with it, the man’s foolhardy attempt at killing him with a mere knife.

Ordinarily Thor would have expected such a break to have healed rapidly; certainly months after the fact it should be all but impossible to detect. It’s possible that the neck injury has been sufficient to delay the bone’s setting – Thor’s no healer to say otherwise – but the raw nature of that break lays cold unease along his spine. Just what has his brother been up to since the battle?

Where has he been?

“Well, yes, that’s definitely a break,” Simmons is saying. “Shouldn’t be too hard to brace. Let me just check…” She must affect her technology somehow, because the arm’s overlay image then has them looking at lights that are flowing. Next something shaded. “Yes, no damage to the local blood vessels and limited bruising.”

She doesn’t send the view back to do the same for Loki’s neck; Thor gets the impression she’s as unnerved as he.

“I’m just checking his organs now…” The image shifts back to the full body view, only this time the shadows of lungs and pulmonary tissue and guts are shown. Thor’s startled to realise that Loki’s internal configuration looks much the same as his own does, then wonders why he’d really expect his brother’s to vary when in Aesir form.

“He seems very cold.” Simmons says, flicking her fingers to send a wave of Midgardian text out to overlay the organs. It takes a moment, but then Thor realises she’s added numbers in their Fahrenheit scheme.

He cannot, in that moment, remember how those values correlate to reality.

“Loki always runs cold. Where is his pulse rate?” That, at least, Thor knows should be comparable to his own.

Thankfully, it is.

“Are there any signs of internal bruising, rupture of organs, slow blood flow, or lack of neuron activity?”

That, too, draws a negative, although Simmons spends longer looking at Loki’s brain than Thor is entirely comfortable with. He reminds himself that it is a highly complex organ and one that she should certainly spend time over; furthermore, that there is little harm in her _looking_. That she has already given her word that she will not to take information away for later study and dissection.

“Nothing that seems asymmetrical or shows a marked variation across his body,” is her final summary. Then she gives a frustrated shrug. “Without baseline data, I’m afraid there’s not much more I can tell you.”

And this is the point where Thor should volunteer to act as a baseline. He knows this. It’s just that he’s fairly certain that his data will be utterly wrong for Loki and that, in truth, acting as his brother’s baseline might cause more harm in the long run than good.

“So. He’s cold, unconscious, and has a broken arm and neck?”

Simmons nods, decisively. “As far as I can determine, yes.”

It’s both better than Thor feared and worse than he ever hoped.

He really wishes he knew what had rendered his brother unconscious. In an absence of a critical head injury or a massive loss of blood, magical exhaustion seems to be the most likely culprit and that’s one that should be offset by time and rest. But if Thor’s wrong…

If he’s wrong, he will be in Landing in ten hours, where Eir can look Loki over.

“Can you continuously monitor his pulse and respiration?”

“Already doing that.” Simmons confirms. Then she ducks away from the table, returning with what looks like a bright red floatation device for a small child.

“What’s-“

“It’s a neck brace, usually used for suspected spinal injuries. As opposed to certain ones. But hopefully this will take some of the stress from his magic, just in case, you know, that fails.” It’s an eminently sensible plan. “Then we can brace his arm and, hopefully, everything will be alright.”

She at no point mentions that this might not be what she wishes for the Invader of New York.

“Thank you, doctor.”

“Oh, not at all.” She smiles brightly. “Can you hold him steady while I…?”

Once the bracing is carried out, she releases her conjured image, and looks doubtfully around the lab. “I don’t suppose you want to leave him to rest and take yourself upstairs?” Only the fact that she’s worded it in the negative keeps Thor from an indignant response. “It’s more comfortable there. No?”

She drags a tall stool over for him, which he’d expected, then fetches one for herself, which he’d not.

“Did he really walk out of a locked votive space?” The young woman sounds fascinated. Something in her question brings to mind Jane, though in all other respects they’re entirely dissimilar. “How did he even get in there?”

It’s a good question, and though Thor suspects he knows the answer, it makes him uneasy to speculate. He settles for, “My brother has his ways.”

Maybe his discomfort shows through, because for all her clear enthusiasm Simmons stops her interrogation there. “Do you want to play chess?” A pause, “ _Do_ you play chess?”

*

Thor doesn’t let them land. He simply doesn’t trust S.H.I.E.L.D. sufficiently, not with his people.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Simmons yells over the howling gale of the opened ramp. Even in the relatively still interior of the plane, she’s clinging tightly to a fixed table top, looking absolutely terrified. By her side, Agent Coulson appears perfectly at ease with taking his plane down to seven thousand feet and opening the hatch.

“I was planning to fly us all the way back.” Thor reminds her.

Not that this hasn’t been better. Less distance without good bracing for his brother; sooner triage of the injuries. All reservations aside, taking the transportation offered, has been the better choice. But this is as far as it goes. Thor looks down, though the few skeins of clouds and over to the deep blue sea.

Then he looks at the agents who have brought him here.

Thor can’t bring himself to lie to the agents. He’s not in a hurry to see them again and it certainly hasn’t been pleasant. “Until next time,” he settles for.

And then, arm firmly around his brother, he jumps into the void.

Ten minutes and a substantial drop in altitude later, his feet touch down. He’s back in Landing.

Loki is with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long break; I got swept up with _the other_ series…


	7. January Elsewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s more to the Nine Realms than merely Midgard and Asgard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been a little relaxed with some of the family trees in here.

Helheim has never been the warmest of realms. It’s a fact that Hela’s currently glad of; these days she finds the bleak cold and grave-chill of her world soothing.

“Shall I prepare the day’s arrivals?” Sassa, the tall, skeletal revenant acting, for want of a more sensitive word, as Hela’s aide, is kneeling before her throne. Under other circumstances, Hela would tell her to rise; in this instance she’s not going to waste her breath.

Sassa’s flesh grants her the freedom to kneel; she should be honoured.

There are days when Hela fantasises about grovelling before Odin; having the flexibility to achieve such an act. Or maybe she could kneel before her ruiner, Surtur, or even her pathetic brother, for the little good he’d be able to grant her. Then she remembers that she’s never knelt a day in her life; she’s not about to start now.

But, to be able to move freely! The luxury of it!

“My Queen?” Sassa’s voice isn’t built for tentativeness; Hela should know, she’s the one who commanded that primordial matter spin this being into existence. The dust of the realm and the remnants of souls so long forgotten they don’t even remember themselves any longer: all of it finding mass and substance under the forming pressure of Hela’s will.

Designed for it or not, Sassa attempts to cower. Hela will give her aide her due for that.

“The arrivals?” Breathless words that recall Hela to her duties.

Hela doesn’t recall being so easily distracted _before_.

It would be nice to flap her hand dismissively. Or to bark out, ‘Send them in’. But these days it’s as much as Hela can do to raise her voice in a hoarse whisper, features twisting against her intention as her jaw moves: “Now.”

The word is barely intelligible to her own ears, but Sassa apparently has no problem comprehending the twisted wreckage of her Queen and Creator. Rather the creature springs for the doors with the grace of a new foal, which, in so many ways, she is.

‘Doors’ doesn’t really do justice to the portal to Hela’s audience chamber. After all, she had them modelled and constructed in the earlier days of her banishment, shaping them after the halls of Asgard. Except better. As it should be.

If she’d known that, a merge two thousand years later, she would be left a husk of her former self, Hela might have been tempted to build on a more modest scale, the easier to move about.

Or maybe not. Sassa is quite capable of acting as her Queen’s arms and legs. Really, she’s very useful; Hela should make more such as her.

As the hordes of the day’s newly dead filter into Hela’s presence, still opaque and well defined, sustained on the memories of those they have left behind, the Queen of Helheim signals her creature to return and abide closely.

The movement, slight though it might be, hurts. Tendons pop and badly charred bone cracks as she moves, but Hela has always had a good sense of self. It will take more to stop her than the still smouldering embers under the left side of her ribs, or the flames that yet eat at her shoulders and neck. Even if she does sometimes yearn to dissolve into screams and nothingness on the floor.

Sassa is nothing if not attentive and gallops to Hela’s side.

It hurts Hela to shape her lips to words; hurts more to move her tongue. Smoke and char and a stray spark or two spill from her mouth as Hela speaks her words. “Bring me Loki.”

*

In the distance, Lord Njord can hear the laughter of children. It must be the attendees of University’s nursery, released from their playrooms to roam the parks surrounding the academic institution. They sound very young. Very innocent.

Across from him, Chancellor Vidar’s wide eyes also seem guileless and pure. If Njord hadn’t, with his own ears, heard the words that issued from the man, he would never have believed them.

Maybe Vidar sees that his idea has landed on less than fertile ground; Njord would certainly like to hope so. But it’s entirely possible his old friend never intended to push the subject further this day.

Instead he’s planted a dishonourable idea, like a warped acorn, deep in Njord’s mind.

“Just think about it.” That’s what the man says. _Think about it_ , like thinking alone wasn’t treason.

And yet, as Njord lets his steps carry him from the University towards his palace, he can’t help but linger over those words. He thinks of them as he walks; as he passes the young adults, training at their magecraft; as he nods to the merchants in the Great Market place, bartering exotic arts and crafts; as he sees the now-defunct bifrost landing site.

He’ll have to have the palace mages create more Power Crystals if the Vanir are to maintain their world-walking. The redirection of resources required is frustrating. Really! They should have found a way to duplicate the bifrost’s effects centuries prior!

They should never have depended so much upon Asgard.

And just like that, he’s once more drawn into reflecting Vidar’s words.

Later, looking out, over his city, Njord sips his wine and wishes it would wipe from his lips the bile of that conversation. Regardless; his chancellor has a point. The absence of Asgard presents certain… opportunities to his realm.

Frigga would kill him for the betrayal of his nephews, but his sister is long dead, avenged and, doubtless, at peace with her husband in Valhalla.

It is his duty, as ruler, to think first and foremost of what is best for his people. And what is best for his people is expansion. Svartalfheim, Midgard, even Alfheim: the opportunities are there. All that remains is the manner of execution.

Svartalfheim would be the obvious first choice. True, it’s a blasted, barren wasteland, but there remain opportunities even there. Mines that could be reopened. Lands that, should water be brought to the realm, could be used for farming or play. Even as it lies, there are benefits. Njord’s far from unaware that some of the more… incautious mages at the University have spells they’d like to trial. Dangerous spells. Powerful spells.

Where better to practice them, then on an annihilated rock?

Such expansion would, of course, cause outrage. The dwarves in particular would hate it. Well, hate it more than they hate any change.

But it’s hardly as though the absence of Asgard’s rule can be ignored indefinitely. And if such expansion is not undertaken by Vanaheim, then surely another, less deserving, realm will try to step forth. Muspelheim, in particular, has been restless of late.

No, maybe he was too hasty in dismissing Vidar earlier, for the Chancellor has a point. Maybe it’s better that Njord seizes control while there’s still a chance that control can be had. He doesn’t have to go all out to begin with. Maybe just a small surveying party to Svartalfheim; confirming its potential now that Odin’s not there to gainsay it…

And once that’s done? There’s the potential to offer Alfheim guidance in more productive farming techniques. Or to go to Midgard bearing support for the short-lived mortals there.

As he finishes the wine and turns to leave his balcony, Njord’s eyes pass over the Senate Building. Unbidden, he tries to imagine persuading _that_ body to authorise the exploration of Svartalfheim.

It will go ill.

Unless…

What if he were to say there is word that shadowy forces plan to assemble there? That those forces, once secure, aim to pillage the remnants of Asgard? Surely in the face of such ghoulish barbary, the Senate could have no hesitation in authorising the transfer of warriors and war mages alike to the realm?

For a moment the vision is there, beautiful and perfect in his mind.

Then he shakes it away. The Senate is not full of fools, but rather visionaries; some quite literally even clairvoyant. He will be found out and Vidar will have made a war criminal of him.

Besides, it may be that he needn’t be the one to start anything. With Asgard ruined and the Allfather’s rule no longer holding them in thrall, Jotunheim is hardly likely to hold to the peace…

*

When Surtur was a mere promise of his future self, barely large enough to fill his father’s palm, his father had told him plainly that his future destiny was to overthrow the pompous beings that would one day try to rule them. More than that, his father had spoken to him on the importance of having a future destiny; something to strive towards.

As an unruly hellion, when he’d first tracked the dragon flights and stirred lava into floods, Surtur might have gone through a phase of doubting in his father. Of rousing trouble. Or of asking whether his father’s own ‘great destiny’ had been to fall into subservience below that bag of water, the Allfather.

Of course, such discourse had mostly been uttered to win the support that he, as a youth barely great enough to erupt a volcano, had needed to overthrow his father.

Regardless of what may have come to pass between the two of them, it would appear that his father might have had a point about needing a fate. For, as great an event as destroying Asgard might have been – and, truly, it was an epic to span the millennia – the execution of his destiny has left Surtur at something of a loss. Especially as he would now appear to be somewhat stranded.

To be trapped at the site of one’s greatest victory is, nonetheless, to be trapped.

It’s occurring to Surtur that, at some point in the ages prior to his capture by the Godling of Meagre Static Charges, he should have planned a post-Ragnarok exit. For now that he’s careening through an asteroid field, the molten fire in his core congealing, it’s really rather too late to do so.

Truly! It was most _inconsiderate_ of the realm to utterly disintegrate. How could he have been expected to realise that driving spars of pure fire and liquid rock multiple times through a thin rocky disk would cause it to fragment?

It would be nice to imagine retrieval by his nearest and dearest. Indeed, he should expect rescue by his kin as merely his due, considering his wondrous victory. Alas, Surtur suspects that it’s more likely that his first wife’s brother has taken to rule in his absence.

Really, it’s just typical! _Finally_ there’s no Odin around, and yet Surtur doesn’t get a chance to enjoy it!

*

Sindrun has presided over a thousand squabbles, a hundred battles, and the creation of numerous superweapons in her centuries as low queen of her particular molehill. But upon returning to the proverbial mountain she’s struck, sick to her stomach, by the wanton destruction she faces.

Forges millennia old have been allowed to fall cold; exotic feedstock left unoiled to oxidise; moulds of ancient skill and artistry are shattered. It’s enough to break her heart!

Then there are the corpses that lie unburied. That’s hardly tidy or sanitary.

She’s set her people to clearing the carnage and salvaging what they can. As they dig in, Sindrun takes herself for a turn around the realm. Signs of chaos and damage are everywhere, but so too remains the potential for creation should one be able to commit to sustained effort.

And assuming that no one arrives to challenge her new rule here.

_That_ thought brings a smile wide enough to part her bushy beard. A change made to dwarfish ways and accepted without challenge? Impossible!

Still, it’s possible that her brothers and sisters will circle more carefully in the wake of this disaster. Eitri’s fate is truly chilling; and her siblings are… not the types to risk what they _have_ for what they _could_ have. Such is not their way. Their hesitance will hopefully let Sindrun hold this metaphorical prized chalice for long enough to determine whether or not it has been poisoned.

But if she proves that the High Throne is safe to hold, then, yes, at that point she is sure to be challenged. So: “We need to repair the fortifications.”

Besides her, Brokkr looks up from the inventory he’s been double-checking. “We’ve already got teams on that.”

“We need it done sooner rather than later.” It’s impossible to hide a grimace at the distaste she feels to be bodging a job. “We can perform a second round of improvements once we’ve got things up and running.”

Brokkr nods, not so much in agreement with her words, but in sympathy with her predicament. “If no one else is here as yet, then they’ll not be coming.”

“We were yet to be here brief hours ago.”

The closer clans, rich in resources and power, might not covert a chance for a High Throne that may be cursed, but Sindrun feels in her bones that she cannot be the only low king or low queen who’ll take a stab at this chance.

Assuming that Brokkr himself doesn’t help her for just long enough to shore up the defences, then turn upon her to claim his brother’s realm.

*

Hela holds her peace through the long, pained silence that falls across the audience chamber after Sassa’s revelation. She shuts her lips and bites down on her rage. After all, what good would ranting do? What help will come from demanding to know _when_ Loki vanished? The key fact is _that_ he vanished.

She sinks back in her throne, relishing the ache of the stone’s eternal chill as it meets the festering fire of her ravaged flesh.

Perhaps it’s for the best? Loki’s a fickle creature at the best of times, and Hela’s not fool enough to assume he’d long find occupation here. Or, rather, not _sufficient_ occupation to prevent him from eventually coming to bother her.

Besides, it’s not as though she doesn’t know whence he’ll have fled.

Despite the pain, her lips can’t seem to help but smile. Yes, maybe having Loki had abscond will prove very useful indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s been a short one, sorry! That said, hopefully you enjoyed seeing what (some of) the other realms have been getting up to...


End file.
